THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


,2 


FORE! 
CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 


FORE! 


BY 

CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 


AUTHOR  OF 

BUCK  PARVIN  AND  THE  MOVIES 

TAKING  THE  COUNT, 
SCORE  BY  INNINGS,  ETC. 


GROSSET     &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

IWade  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1914, 1916,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son 
Copyright,  1917,  1918,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


My  dear  Ed.  Tufts: — 

Once,  when  a  mere  child,  I  strayed  as  far  away  from  home 
as  Pico  Street,  and  followed  that  thoroughfare  westward  until 
the  houses  gave  way  to  open  country,  hedged  by  a  dense  forest 
of  real  estate  signs. 

In  the  midst  of  that  wilderness  I  chanced  upon  a  somewhat 
chubby  gentleman  engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  a  small  white 
ball,  which,  when  he  came  within  striking  distance,  he  beat 
savagely  with  weapons  of  wood  and  iron.  That,  sir,  was  my 
first  sight  of  you,  and  my  earliest  acquaintance  with  the  game 
of  golf.  I  remember  scanning  the  horizon  for  your  keeper. 

Times  have  changed  since  then.  The  old  Pico  Street  course 
ia  covered  with  bungalows  and  mortgages.  Golf  clubs  are 
everywhere.  The  hills  are  dotted  with  middle-aged  gentlemen 
who  use  the  same  weapons  of  wood  and  iron  and  the  same 
red-hot  adjectives.  A  man  may  now  admit  that  he  commits 
golf  and  the  statement  will  not  be  used  against  him.  Every 
body  is  doing  it.  The  pastime  has  become  popular. 

But-  it  took  courage  to  be  a  pioneer,  to  listen  to  the  sneers 
about  "Cow-pasture  pool"  and  to  remain  cool,  calm  and 
collected  when  putting  within  sight  of  the  country  road  and 
within  hearing  of  the  comments  of  the  Great  Unenlightened. 
That  courage  entitles  you  to  this  small  recognition,  and  also- 
entitles  you  to  purchase  as  many  copies  of  this  book  as  you 
can  afford. 

Yours  as  usual, 

CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 

To  Mr.  Edward  B.  Tufts  of  the  Los  Angeles  Country  Club. 
Los  Angeles,  Cal.,  January  17,  1918. 


2037506 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

GENTLEMEN,  You  CAN'T  Go  THBOTJGH 11 

LITTLE  POISON  IVY 51 

THE  MAJOR,  D.  O.  S \  .     .     .  89 

A  MIXED  FOURSOME 127 

''SiMiLiA  SIMILIBUS  CURANTUB" 164 

A  CURE  FOR  LUMBAGO 201 

THE  MAN  WHO  QUIT 231 

THE  OOLET-COW 262 

ADOLPHUS  AND  THE  ROUGH  DIAMOND 299 


GENTLEMEN,  YOU  CAN'T  GO  THROUGH! 


THEEE  has  been  considerable  argument 
about  it — even  a  mention  of  ethics — 
though  where  ethics  figures  in  this  case 
is  more  than  I  know.    I'd  like  to  take  a 
flat-footed  stance  as  claiming  that  the  end  justi 
fied  the  means.    Saint  George  killed  the  Dragon, 
and  Hercules  mopped  up  the  Augean  stables, 
but   little   Wally   Wallace — one   hundred   and 
forty-two  pounds  in  his  summer  underwear — 
did  a  bigger  job  and  a  better  job  when  the  bet 
ting  was  odds-on-and-write-your-own-ticket  that 
it  couldn't  be  done.    I  wouldn't  mind  heading  a 
subscription  to  present  him  with  a  gold  medal 
about  the  size  of  a  soup  plate,  inscribed  as  fol 
lows,  to  wit  and  viz. : 

W.  W.  Wallace — He  Put  the  Fore  in  Foursome. 

Every  golfer  who  ever  conceded  himself  a 
two-foot  putt  because  he  was  afraid  he  might 
miss  it  has  sweated  and  suffered  and  blas 
phemed  in  the  wake  of  a  slow  foursome.  All 

[11] 


FORE! 

the  clubs  that  I  have  ever  seen — and  I've  trav 
elled  a  bit — are  cursed  with  at  least  one  of  these 
Creeping  Pestilences  which  you  observe  mostly 
from  the  rear. 

You're  a  golfer,  of  course,  and  you  know  the 
make-up  of  a  slow  foursome  as  well  as  I  do: 
Four  nice  old  gentlemen,  prominent  in  business 
circles,  church  members,  who  remember  it  even 
when  they  top  a  tee  shot,  pillars  of  society,  rich 
enough  to  be  carried  over  the  course  in  palan 
quins,  but  too  proud  to  ride,  too  dignified  to 
hurry,  too  meek  to  argue  except  among  them 
selves,  and  too  infernally  selfish  to  stand  aside 
and  let  the  younger  men  go  through.  They  take 
nine  practice  swings  before  hitting  a  shot,  and 
then  flub  it  disgracefully;  they  hold  a  prayer 
meeting  on  every  putting  green  and  a  post 
mortem  on  every  tee,  and  a  rheumatic  snail 
could  give  them  a  flying  start  and  beat  them 
out  in  a  fifty-yard  dash.  Know  'em?  What 
golfer  doesn't? 

But  nobody  knows  why  it  is  that  the  four 
slowest  players  in  every  club  always  manage  to 
hook  up  in  a  sort  of  permanent  alliance.  No 
body  knows  why  they  never  stage  their  creep 
ing  contests  on  the  off  days  when  the  course  is 
clear.  Nobody  knows  why  they  always  pick  the 
sunniest  afternoons,  when  the  locker  room  is 
full  of  young  men  dressing  in  a  hurry.  Nobody 
knows  why  they  bolt  their  luncheons  and  scuttle 
out  to  the  first  tee,  nor  where  that  speed  goes 
as  soon  as  they  drive  and  start  down  the  course. 

[12] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO    THROUGH! 

Nobody  knows  why  they  refuse  to  walk  any 
faster  than  a  bogged  mooley  cow.  Nobody 
knows  why  they  never  look  behind  them.  No 
body  knows  why  they  never  hear  any  one  yell 
' '  Fore ! ' '  Nobody  knows  why  they  are  so  dead 
set  against  letting  any  one  through. 

Everybody  knows  the  fatal  effect  of  standing 
too  long  over  the  ball,  all  dressed  up  with  no 
where  to  go.  Everybody  knows  of  the  tee  shots 
that  are  slopped  and  sliced  and  hooked;  of  the 
indecision  caused  by  the  long  wait  before  play 
ing  the  second ;  of  the  change  of  clubs  when  the 
first  choice  was  the  correct  one ;  of  the  inevitable 
penalty  exacted  by  loss  of  temper  and  mental 
poise.  Everybody  knows  that  a  slow  foursome 
gives  the  Eeeording  Angel  a  busy  afternoon, 
and  leaves  a  sulphurous  haze  over  an  entire 
course.  But  the  aged  reprobates  who  are  re 
sponsible  for  all  this  trouble — do  they  care  how 
much  grief  and  rage  and  bitterness  simmers  in 
their  wake?  You  think  they  do?  Think  again. 
Golf  and  Business  are  the  only  games  they  have- 
ever  had  time  to  learn,  and  one  set  of  rules  does 
for  both.  The  rest  of  the  world  may  go  hang! 
Golf  is  a  serious  matter  with  these  hoary  of 
fenders,  and  they  manage  to  make  it  serious 
for  everybody  behind  them — the  fast-walking, 
quick- swinging  fellows  who  are  out  for  a  sweat 
and  a  good  time  and  lose  both  because  the  slow 
foursome  blocks  the  way. 

Yes,  you  recognise  the  thumb-nail  sketch — it 
is  the  slow  foursome  which  infests  your  course; 

[13] 


FORE! 

the  one  which  you  find  in  front  of  you  when  you 
go  visiting.  You  think  that  four  men  who  are 
inconsiderate  enough  to  ruin  your  day's  sport 
and  ruffle  your  temper  ought  to  be  disciplined, 
called  up  on  the  carpet,  taken  in  hand  by  the 
Greens  Committee.  You  think  they  are  the 
worst  ever — but  wait!  You  are  about  to  hear 
of  the  golfing  renegades  known  as  the  Big  Four, 
who  used  to  sew  us  up  twice  a  week  as  regularly 
as  the  days  came  round;  you  are  about  to  hear 
of  Elsberry  J.  Watlington,  and  Colonel  Jim 
Peck,  and  Samuel  Alexander  Peebles,  and  W. 
Cotton  Hamilton — world's  champions  in  the 
Snail  Stakes,  undisputed  holders  of  the  Chal 
lenge  Belt  for  Practice  Swinging,  and  unde 
feated  catch-as-catch-can  loiterers  on  the  Put 
ting  Green. 

Six  months  ago  we  would  have  backed  Wat 
lington,  Peck,  Peebles  and  Hamilton  against  the 
wide  world,  bet  dollars  against  your  dimes  and 
allowed  you  to  select  your  own  stakeholders, 
timekeepers  and  judges.  That's  how  much 
confidence  we  had  in  the  Big  Four.  They  were 
without  doubt  and  beyond  argument  the  slow 
est  and  most  exasperating  quartette  of  obstruc 
tionists  that  ever  laid  their  middle-aged  stom 
achs  behind  the  line  of  a  putt. 

Do  I  hear  a  faint  murmur  of  dissent  ?  Going 
a  little  strong,  am  I?  All  right,  glad  you  men 
tioned  it,  because  we  may  as  well  settle  this 
question  of  supremacy  here  and  now. 

To  save  time,  I  will  admit  that  your  foursome 
[14] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN  JT    GO    THROUGH! 

is  slower  than  Congress  and  more  irritating 
than  the  Senate.  Permit  me  to  ask  you  one 
question:  Going  back  over  the  years,  can  you 
recall  a  single  instance  when  your  slow  four 
some  allowed  you  to  play  through?  ...  A  lost 
ball,  was  it?  .  .  .  Well,  anyway,  you  got  through 
them.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  and  your  answer  puts 
you  against  the  ropes.  I  will  now  knock  you 
clear  out  of  the  ring  with  one  well-directed 
statement  of  fact.  Tie  on  your  bonnet  good  and 
tight  and  listen  to  this :  The  Big  Four  held  up 
our  course  for  seven  long  and  painful  years,  and 
during  that  period  of  time  they  never  allowed 
any  one  to  pass  them,  lost  ball  or  no  lost  ball. 

That  stops  you,  eh?  I  rather  thought  it 
would.  It  stopped  us  twice  a  week. 

n 

Visitors  used  to  play  our  course  on  Wednes 
days  and  Saturdays — our  big  days — and  then 
sit  in  the  lounging  room  and  try  hard  to  re 
member  that  they  were  our  guests.  There  were 
two  questions  which  they  never  failed  to  ask : 

"Don't  they  ever  let  anybody  through?" 

And  then : 

"How  long  has  this  been  going  on?" 

"When  we  answered  them  truthfully  they 
shook  their  heads,  looked  out  of  the  windows, 
and  told  us  how  much  better  their  clubs  were 
handled.  Our  course  was  all  right — they  had  to 
say  that  much  in  fairness.  It  was  well  trapped 

[15] 


FORE! 

and  bunkered,  and  laid  out  with  an  eye  to  the 
average  player ;  the  fair  greens  were  the1  best 
in  the  state ;  the  putting  greens  were  like  velvet ;, 
the  holes  were  sporty  enough  to  suit  anybody; 
but And  then  they  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow  again. 

You  see,  the  trouble  was  that  the  Big  Four 
practically  ran  the  club  as  they  liked.  They 
had  financed  it  in  its  early  days,  and  as  a  re 
ward  had  been  elected  to  almost  everything  in 
sight.  We  used  to  say  that  they  shook  dice  to 
see  who  should  be  president  and  so  forth,  and 
probably  they  did.  They  might  as  well  have 
settled  it  that  way  as  any  other,  for  the  annual 
election  and  open  meeting  was  a  joke. 

It  usually  took  place  in  the  lounging  room  on 
a  wet  Saturday  afternoon.  Somebody  would 
get  up  and  begin  to  drone  through  a  report  of 
the  year's  activities.  Then  somebody  else 
would  make  a  motion  and  everybody  would  say 
' '  Ay ! ' '  After  that  the  result  of  the  annual  elec 
tion  of  officers  would  be  announced.  The  voting 
members  always  handed  in  the  printed  slips 
which  they  found  on  the  tables,  and  the  ticket 
was  never  scratched — it  would  be  Watlington, 
Peck,  Peebles  and  Hamilton  all  the  way.  The 
only  real  question  would  be  whether  or  not  the 
incoming  president  of  the  club  would  buy  a 
drink  for  all  hands.  If  it  was  Peck's  turn  the 
motion  was  lost. 

As  a  natural  result  of  this  sort  of  thing  the 
Big  Four  never  left  the  saddle  for  an  instant. 

[16] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO   THROUGH! 

Talk  about  perpetuation  in  office — they  had  it 
down  to  a  fine  point.  They  were  always  on  the 
Board  of  Directors ;  they  saw  to  it  that  control 
of  the  Greens  Committee  never  slipped  out  of 
their  hands ;  they  had  two  of  the  three  votes  on 
the  House  Committee,  and  no  outsider  was  even 
considered  for  treasurer.  They  were  dictators 
with  a  large  D,  and  nobody  could  do  a  thing 
about  it. 

If  a  mild  kick  was  ever  made  or  new  blood 
suggested,  the  kicker  was  made  to  feel  like  an 
ingrate.  Who  started  the  club  anyway?  Who 
dug  up  the  money?  Who  swung  the  deal  that 
put  the  property  in  our  hands'?  Why,  Watling- 
ton,  Peck,  Peebles  and  Hamilton,  to  be  sure! 
Could  any  one  blame  them  for  wanting  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  organisation?  Cer-tain-ly  not. 
The  Big  Four  had  us  bluffed,  bulldozed,  buf 
faloed,  licked  to  a  whisper. 

Peck,  Peebles  and  Hamilton  were  the  active 
heads  of  the  Midland  Manufacturing  Company, 
and  it  was  pretty  well  known  that  the  bulk  of 
Watlington's  fortune  was  invested  in  the  same 
enterprise.  Those  who  knew  said  they  were 
just  as  ruthless  in  business  as  they  were  in  golf 
— quite  a  strong  statement. 

They  seemed  to  regard  the  Sundown  Golf  and 
Country  Club  as  their  private  property,  and  we 
were  welcome  to  pay  dues  and  amuse  ourselves 
five  days  a  week,  but  on  Wednesdays  and  Satur 
days  we  were  not  to  infringe  on  the  sovereign 
rights  of  the  Big  Four. 

[17] 


FOKE! 

They  never  entered  any  of  the-  club  tourna 
ments,  for  that  would  have  necessitated  break 
ing  up  their  foursome.  They  always  turned  up 
in  a  body,  on  the  tick  of  noon,  and  there  was  an 
immediate  scramble  to  beat  them  to  Number 
One  tee.  Those  who  lost  out  stampeded  over 
to  Number  Ten  and  played  the  second  nine  first. 
Nobody  wanted  to  follow  them ;  but  a  blind  man, 
playing  without  a  caddie,  couldn't  have  helped 
but  catch  up  with  them  somewhere  on  the  course. 

If  you  wonder  why  the  club  held  together, 
you  have  only  to  recall  the  story  of  the  cow- 
puncher  whose  friend  beckoned  him  away  from 
the  faro  layout  to  inform  him  that  the  game  was 
crooked. 

' '  Hell ! ' '  said  the  cow-puncher.  ' '  I  know  that ; 
but — it's  the  only  game  in  town,  ain't  it?" 

The  S.  G.  &  C.  C.  was  the  only  golf  club  within 
fifty  miles. 

m 

When  Wally  "Wallace  came  home  from  college 
he  blossomed  out  as  a  regular  member  of  the 
club.  He  had  been  a  junior  member  before,  one 
of  the  tennis  squad. 

Wally  is  the  son  of  old  Hardpan  Wallace,  of 
the  Trans-Pacific  outfit — you  may  have  heard  of 
him — and  the  sole  heir  to  more  millions  than  he 
will  ever  be  able  to  spend;  but  we  didn't  hold 
this  against  the  boy.  He  isn't  the  sort  that 
money  can  spoil,  with  nothing  about  him  to  re- 

[18] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO    THROUGH! 

mind  you  of  old  Hardpan,  unless  it  might  be  a 
little  more  chin  than  he  really  needs. 

Wally's  first  act  as  a  full-fledged  member  of 
the  club  was  to  qualify  for  the  James  Peck  An 
nual  Trophy — a  pretty  fair  sort  of  cup,  consid 
ering  the  donor. 

He  turned  in  a  nice  snappy  eighty-one,  which 
showed  us  that  a  college  education  had  not  been 
wasted  on  him,  and  also  caused  several  of  the 
Class-A  men  to  sit  up  a  bit  and  take  notice. 

He  came  booming  through  to  the  semi-finals 
with  his  head  up  and  his  tail  over  the  dash 
board.  It  was  there  that  he  ran  into  me.  Now 
I  am  no  Jerry  Travers,  but  there  are  times  when 
I  play  to  my  handicap,  which  is  ten,  and  I  had 
been  going  fairly  well.  I  had  won  four  matches 
— one  of  them  by  default.  Wally  had  also  won 
four  matches,  but  the  best  showing  made  against 
him  was  five  down  and  four  to  go.  His  handi 
cap  was  six,  so  he  would  have  to  start  me  two 
up ;  but  I  had  seen  enough  of  his  game  to  know 
that  I  was  up  against  the  real  thing,  and  would 
need  a  lot  of  luck  to  give  the  boy  anything  like 
a  close  battle.  He  was  a  strong,  heady  match 
player,  and  if  he  had  a  weakness  the  men  whom 
he  had  defeated  hadn't  been  able  to  spot  it.  Al 
together  it  wasn't  a  very  brilliant  outlook  for 
me;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  suppose  no  ten- 
handicap  man  ever  ought  to  have  a  brilliant  out 
look.  It  isn't  coming  to  him.  If  he  has  one  it 
is  because  the  handicapper  has  been  careless. 

Under  our  rules  a  competitor  in  a  club  tourna- 
[19] 


FOKE! 

ment  has  a  week  in  which  to  play  his  man,  and 
it  so  happened  that  we  agreed  on  Wednesday 
for  our  meeting.  Wally  called  for  me  in  his 
new  runabout,  and  we  had  lunch  together — I 
shook  him  and  stuck  him  for  it,  and  he  grinned 
and  remarked  that  a  man  couldn't  be  lucky  at 
everything.  "While  we  were  dressing  he  chat 
tered  like  a  magpie,  talking  about  everything  in 
the  world  but  golf,  which  was  a  sign  that  he 
wasn't  worrying  much.  He  expected  easy  pick 
ing,  and  under  normal  conditions  he  would  have 
had  it. 

We  left  the  first  tee  promptly  at  one-forty- 
five  P.  M.,  our  caddies  carrying  the  little  red 
flags  which  demand  the  right  of  way  over  every 
thing.  I  might  have  suggested  starting  at  Num 
ber  Ten  if  I  had  thought  of  it,  but  to  tell  the 
truth  I  was  a  wee  mite  nervous  and  was  won 
dering  whether  I  had  my  drive  with  me  or  not. 
You  know  how  the  confounded  thing  comes  and 
goes.  So  we  started  at  Number  One,  and  my 
troubles  began.  Wally  opened  up  on  me  with  a 
four-four-three,  making  the  third  hole  in  a 
stroke  under  par,  and  when  we  reached  the 
fourth  tee  we  were  all  square  and  my  handicap 
was  gone. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  tee  that  we  first  began 
to  notice  signs  of  congestion  ahead  of  us.  One 
foursome  had  just  driven  off  and  beckoned  us 
to  come  through,  another  was  waiting  to  go,  and 
the  fair  green  on  the  way  to  the  fifth  looked  like 
the  advance  of  the  Mexican  standing  army. 

[20] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO    THROUGH! 

"Somebody  has  lost  the  transmission  out  of 
his  wheel  chair, ' '  said  Wally.  ' '  Well,  we  should 
worry — we  Ve  got  the  red  flags  and  the  right  of 
way.  Fore ! ' '  And  he  proceeded  to  smack  a 
perfect  screamer  down  the  middle  of  the  course 
— two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  if  it  was  an  inch. 
I  staggered  into  one  and  laid  my  ball  some  dis 
tance  behind  his,  but  on  the  direct  line  to  the 
pin.  Then  we  had  to  wait  a  bit  while  another 
foursome  putted  out. 

"There  oughtn't  to  be  any  congestion  on  a 
day  like  this,"  said  Wally.  "Must  be  a  bunch 
of  old  men  ahead." 

"It's  the  Big  Four,"  said  I.  "Watlington, 
Peck,  Peebles  and  Hamilton.  They  always  take 
their  time. ' ' 

From  where  we  were  we  could  see  the  seventh 
and  eighth  fair  greens.  There  wasn't  a  player 
in  sight  on  either  one. 

"  Good  Lord !"  said  Wally.  < '  They  Ve  got  the 
whole  United  States  wide  open  ahead  of  'em. 
They're  not  holding  their  place  on  the  course." 

"They  never  do,"  said  I,  and  just  then  the 
foursome  moved  off  the  putting  green. 

' '  Give  her  a  ride,  old  top ! ' '  said  Wally. 

I  claim  that  my  second  shot  wasn't  half  bad — - 
for  a  ten-handicap  man.  I  used  a  brassy  and 
reached  the  green  about  thirty  feet  from  the 
pin,  but  the  demon  Wally  pulled  a  mid-iron  out 
of  his  bag,  waggled  it  once  or  twice,  and  then 
made  my  brassy  look  sick.  When  we  reached 
the  top  of  the  hill,  there  was  his  ball  ten  feet 

[21] 


FORE! 

from  the  cup.    I  ran  up,  playing  it  safe  for  a 
par  four,  but  Wally  studied  the  roll  of  the  green 
for  about  ten  seconds — and  dropped  a  very  fat 
three.    He  was  decent  enough  to  apologise. 
*  *  I  'm  playing  over  my  head, ' '  said  he. 

I  couldn't  dispute  it — two  threes  on  par  fours 
might  well  be  over  anybody's  head.    One  down 
and  fourteen  to  go ;  it  had  all  the  earmarks  of  a 
massacre. 

We  had  quite  an  audience  at  the  fifth  tee — 
two  foursomes  were  piled  up  there,  cursing. 
"What's  the  matter,  gentlemen?"  asked  Wally. 
' '  Can 't  you  get  through  f ' ' 

"Nobody  can  get  through,"  said  Billy  Wil 
liams.  "  It 's  the  Big  Four. ' ' 

"But  they'll  respect  the  red  flags,  won't 
they?" 

It  was  a  perfectly  natural  question  for  a 
stranger  to  ask — and  Wally  was  practically  a 
stranger,  though  most  of  the  men  knew  who  he 
was.  It  brought  all  sorts  of  answers. 

"You  think  they  will?  I'll  bet  you  a  little 
two  to  one,  no  limit,  that  they're  all  colour 
blind!" 

"Oh,  yes,  they'll  let  you  through!" 

"They'll  ask  you  to  come  through — won't 
they,  Billy  ?  They  '11  insist  on  it,  what ! ' ' 

I 1  They  're  full  of  such  tricks ! ' ' 

Wally  was  puzzled.  He  didn't  quite  know 
what  to  make  of  it.  ' '  But  a  red  flag, ' '  said  he, 
"gives  you  the  right  of  way." 

"Everywhere  but  here,"  said  Billy  Williams. 
[22] 


GENTLEMEN,   YOU   CAN'T   GO   THEOUGH ! 

"But  in  this  case  it's  a  rule!"  argued  Wally. 

"Those  fellows  in  front  make  their  own 
rules." 

"But  the  Greens  Committee "    And  this 

was  where  everybody  laughed. 

Wally  stooped  and  teed  his  ball. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "I'll  bet  you  anything 
you  like  that  they  let  us  through.  Why,  they 
can't  help  themselves!" 

"You  bet  that  they'll  let  you  through  of  their 
own  accord  ? ' '  asked  Ben  Ashley,  who  never  has 
been  known  to  pass  up  a  plain  cinch. 

"On  our  request  to  be  allowed  to  pass,"  said 
Wally. 

"If  you  drive  into  'em  without  their  permis 
sion  you  lose,"  stipulated  Ben. 

"Right!  "said  Wally. 

"Got  you  for  a  dozen  balls!"  said  Ben. 

"Anybody  else  want  some  of  it?"  asked 
Wally. 

Before  he  got  off  the  tee  he  stood  to  lose  six 
dozen  balls ;  but  his  nerve  was  unshaken  and  he 
slammed  out  another  tremendous  drive.  I 
sliced  into  a  ditch  and  away  we  went,  leaving  a 
great  deal  of  promiscuous  kidding  behind  us. 
It  took  me  two  shots  to  get  out  at  all,  and  Wally 
picked  up  another  hole  on  me. 

Two  down — murder! 

On  the  sixth  tee  we  ran  into  another  mass 
meeting  of  malcontents.  Old  Man  Martin,  our 
prize  grouch,  grumbled  a  bit  when  we  called 
attention  to  our  red  flags. 

[23] 


FOKE  ! 

' '  What 's  the  use  *? "  said  he.  ' '  You  're  on  your 
way,  but  you  ain't  going  anywhere.  Might  just 
as  well  sit  down  and  take  it  easy.  Watlington 
has  got  a  lost  ball,  and  the  others  have  gone  on 
to  the  green  so's  nobody  can  get  through. 
Won't  do  you  a  bit  of  good  to  drive,  Wally. 
There's  two  foursomes  hung  up  over  the  hill 
now,  and  they'll  be  right  there  till  Watlington 
finds  that  ball.  Sit  down  and  be  sociable." 
I  ' '  What  '11  you  bet  that  we  don 't  get  through  1 ' ' 
demanded  Wally,  who  was  beginning  to  show 
signs  of  irritation. 

>  "Whatever  you  got  the  most  of,  sonny — pro 
vided  you  make  the  bet  this  way:  they  got  to 
let  you  through.  Of  course  you  might  drive 
into  'em  or  walk  through  'em,  but  that  ain't 
being  done — much." 

!  '  *  Eight !  The  bet  is  that  they  let  us  through. 
One  hundred  fish. ' ' 

Old  Martin  cackled  and  turned  his  cigar  round 
and  round  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth — a  wolf 
when  it  comes  to  a  cinch  bet. 

"Gosh!  Listen  to  our  banty  rooster  crow! 
Want  another  hundred,  sonny?" 

"Yes — grandpa!"  said  Wally,  and  sent  an 
other  perfect  drive  soaring  up  over  the  hill. 

Number  Six  is  a  long  hole,  and  the  ordinary 
player  never  attempts  to  carry  the  cross-bunker 
on  his  second.  I  followed  with  a  middling-to- 
good  shot,  and  we  bade  the  congregation  fare 
well. 

"It's  ridiculous!"  said  Wally  as  we  climbed 
[24] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO    THROUGH! 

the  hill.  "I  never  saw  a  foursome  yet  tha£ 
wouldn't  yield  to  a  red  flag,  or  one  that 
wouldn't  let  a  twosome  through — if  properly 
approached.  And  we  have  the  right  of  way  over 
everything  on  the  course.  The  Greens  Com 
mittee " 


< . ' 


:Is  composed,"  said  I,  "of  Watlington,  Peck 
and  Peebles — three  members  of  the  Big  Four. 
They  built  the  club,  they  run  the  club,  and  they 
have  never  been  known  to  let  anybody  through. 
I'm  sorry,  Wally,  but  I'm  afraid  you're  up 
against  it. ' ' 

The  boy  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"Then  those  fellows  behind  us,"  said  he, 
"were  betting  on  a  cinch,  eh?" 

"It  was  your  proposition,"  I  reminded  him. 

"So  it  was,"  and  he  grinned  like  the  good 
game  kid  he  is.  "The  Greens  Committee,  eh? 
'Hast  thou  appealed  unto  Caesar?  unto  Caesar 
shalt  thou  go.'  I'm  a  firm  believer  in  the  right 
method  of  approach.  They  wouldn't  have  the 
nerve " 

1 1  They  have  nerve  enough  for  anything, ' '  said 
I,  and  dropped  the  subject.  I  didn't  want  him 
to  get  the  idea  that  I  was  trying  to  argue  with 
him  and  upset  his  game.  One  foursome  was 
lying  down  just  over  the  hill;  the  other  was 
piled  up  short  of  the  bunker.  Watlington  had 
finally  found  his  ball  and  played  onto  the  green. 
The  others,  of  course,  had  been  standing  round 
the  pin  and  holding  things  up  for  him. 

I  took  an  iron  on  my  second  and  played  short, 
[25] 


FORE  I 


intending  to  pitch  over  the  bunker  on  my  third. 
Wally  used  a  spoon  and  got  tremendous  height 
and  distance.  His  ball  carried  the  bunker, 
kicked  to  the  right  and  stopped  behind  a  sand- 
trap.  It  was  a  phenomenal  shot,  and  with  luck 
on  the  kick  would  have  gone  straight  to  the  pin. 

I  thought  the  Big  Four  would  surely  be  off 
the  green  by  the  time  I  got  up  to  my  ball,  but 
no,  Peck  was  preparing  to  hole  a  three-foot  putt. 
Any  ordinary  dub  would  have  walked  up  to  that 
pill  and  tapped  it  in,  but  that  wasn't  Peck's 
style.  He  got  down  on  all  fours  and  sighted 
along  the  line  to  the  hole.  Then  he  rose,  took 
out  his  handkerchief,  wiped  his  hands  carefully, 
called  for  his  putter  and  took  an  experimental 
stance,  tramping  about  like  a  cat  "making 
bread"  on  a  woollen  rug. 

1 '  Look  at  him ! ' '  grunted  Wally.  '  *  You  don 't 
mind  if  I  go  ahead  to  my  ball?  It  won't  bother 
you?" 

' '  Not  in  the  least, ' '  said  I. 

"I  want  to  play  as  soon  as  they  get  out  of  the 
way,"  he  explained. 

The  Colonel's  first  stance  did  not  suit  him,  so 
he  had  to  go  all  through  the  tramping  process 
again.  When  he  was  finally  satisfied,  he  began 
swinging  his  putter  back  and  forth  over  the  ball, 
like  the  pendulum  of  a  grandfather's  clock — ten 
swings,  neither  more  nor  less.  Could  any  one 
blame  Wally  for  boiling  inside? 

After  the  three-footer  dropped — he  didn't 
miss  it,  for  a  wonder — they  all  gathered  round 

[26] 


GENTLEMEN,    ,YOU    CAN'T   GO    THEOTJGH ! 

the  hole  and  pulled  out  their  cards.  Knowing 
each  other  as  well  as  they  did,  nobody  was 
trusted  to  keep  the  score. 

" Fore!"  called  Wally. 

They  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  him, 
and  it  was  fully  half  a  minute  before  they 
ambled  leisurely  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
seventh  tee. 

I  played  my  pitch  shot,  with  plenty  of  back- 
spin  on  it,  and  stopped  ten  or  twelve  feet  short 
of  the  hole.  Wally  played  an  instant  later,  a 
mashie  shot  intended  to  clear  the  trap,  but  he 
had  been  waiting  too  long  and  was  burning  up 
with  impatience.  He  topped  the  ball,  hit  the  far 
edge  of  the  sandtrap  and  bounced  back  into  a 
bad  lie.  Of  course  I  knew  why  he  had  been  in 
such  a  hurry — he  wanted  to  catch  the  Big  Four 
on  the  seventh  tee.  His  niblick  shot  was  too 
strong,  but  he  laid  his  fifth  dead  to  the  hole, 
giving  me  two  for  a  win.  Just  as  a  matter  of 
record,  let  me  state  that  I  canned  a  nice  rain 
bow  putt  for  a  four.  A  four  on  Number  Six  is 
rare. 

* '  Nice  work ! ' '  said  Wally.  '  *  You  're  only  one 
down  now.  Come  on,  let's  get  through  these 
miserable  old  men!" 

Watlington  was  just  addressing  his  ball,  the 
others  had  already  driven.  He  fussed  and  he 
fooled  and  he  waggled  his  old  dreadnaught  for 
fifteen  or  twenty  seconds,  and  then  shot  straight 
into  the  bunker — a  wretchedly  topped  ball. 

[27] 


FORE! 

1 1  Bless  my  heart ! ' '  said  he.  1 1  Now  why — why 
do  I  always  miss  my  drive  on  this  hole?" 

Peck  started  to  tell  him,  being  his  partner, 
but  Wally  interrupted,  politely  but  firmly. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "if  you  have  no  objec 
tion  we  will  go  through.  We  are  playing  a 
tournament  match.  Mr.  Curtiss,  your  honour, 
I  believe." 

Well,  sir,  for  all  the  notice  they  took  of  him 
he  might  have  been  speaking  to  four  graven  im 
ages.  Not  one  of  them  so  much  as  turned  his 
head.  Colonel  Peck  had  the  floor. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Wat,"  said  he,  "I  think  it's 
your  stance.  You're  playing  the  ball  too  much 
off  your  right  foot — coming  down  on  it  too 

much.    Now  if  you  want  it  to  rise  more 

They  were  moving  away  now,  but  very  slowly. 

"Fore!" 

This  time  they  had  to  notice  the  boy.  He  was 
mad  clear  through,  and  his  voice  showed  it. 
They  all  turned,  took  one  good  look  at  him,  and 
then  toddled  away,  keeping  well  in  the  middle 
of  the  course.  Peck  was  still  explaining  the 
theory  of  the  perfect  drive.  Wally  yelled  again ; 
this  time  they  did  not  even  look  at  him. 
"Well!"  said  he.  "Of  all  the  damned  swine! 
I — I  believe  we  should  drive  anyway ! ' ' 

"You'll  lose  a  lot  of  bets  if  you  do."  Per 
haps  I  shouldn't  have  said  that.  Goodness 
knows  I  didn't  want  to  see  his  game  go  to  pieces 
behind  the  Big  Four — I  didn't  want  to  play  be- 

[28] 


GENTLEMEN,   ,YOU    CANJT   GO    THROUGH ! 

hind  them  myself.  I  tried  to  explain.  The  kid 
came  over  and  patted  me  on  the  back. 

' '  You  're  perfectly  right, ' '  said  he.  l '  I  forgot 
all  about  those  fool  bets,  but  I'd  gladly  lose  all  of 
'em  if  I  thought  I  could  hit  that  long-nosed  stiff 
in  the  back  of  the  neck ! ' '  He  meant  the  Colonel. 
"And  so  that's  the  Greens  Committee,  eh? 
Holy  jumping  Jemima !  "What  a  club ! ' ' 

I  couldn't  think  of  much  of  anything  to  say, 
so  we  sat  still  and  watched  Watlington  dig  his 
way  out  of  the  bunker,  Peck  offering  advice 
after  each  failure.  When  Watlington  disagreed 
,with  Peck's  point  of  view  he  took  issue  with 
him,  and  all  hands  joined  in  the  argument. 
[Wally  was  simply  sizzling  with  pent-up  emo- 
;tion,  and  after  Watlington 's  fifth  shot  he  began 
:to  lift  the  safety-valve  a  bit.  The  language 
which  he  used  was  wonderful,  and  a  great  trib 
ute  to  higher  education.  Old  Hardpan  himself 
couldn't  have  beaten  it,  even  in  his  mule-skin 
ning  days. 

At  last  the  foursome  was  out  of  range  and  I 
got  off  a  pretty  fair  tee  shot.  Wally  was  still 
telling  me  what  he  thought  of  the  Greens  Com 
mittee  when  he  swung  at  the  ball,  and  never 
have  I  seen  a  wider  hook.  It  was  still  hooking 
when  it  disappeared  in  the  woods,  out  of  bounds. 
His  next  ball  took  a  slice  and  rolled  into  long 
grass. 

' '  Serves  me  right  for  losing  my  temper, ' '  said 
he  with  a  grin.  * '  I  can  play  this  game  all  right, 
old  top,  but  when  I'm  riled  it  sort  of  unsettles 

[29] 


FOEE  ! 

me.  Something  tells  me  that  I'm  going  to  be 
riled  for  the  next  half  hour  or  so.  Don't  mind 
what  I  say.  It's  all  meant  for  those  hogs  ahead 
of  us." 

I  helped  him  find  his  ball,  and  even  then 
we  had  to  wait  on  Peebles  and  Hamilton,  who 
were  churning  along  down  the  middle  of  the 
course  in  easy  range.  I  lighted  a  cigarette  and 
thought  about  something  else — my  income  tax, 
I  think  it  was.  I  had  found  this  a  good  system 
when  sewed  up  behind  the  Big  Four.  I  don't 
know  what  poor  Wally  was  thinking  about — 
man's  inhumanity  to  man,  I  suppose — for  when 
it  came  time  to  shoot  he  failed  to  get  down  to 
his  ball  and  hammered  it  still  deeper  into  the 
grass. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  the  bets,"  said  he,  "I'd  pick 
up  and  we'd  go  over  to  Number  Eight.  I'm 
afraid  that  on  a  strict  interpretation  of  the 
terms  of  agreement  Martin  could  spear  me  for 
two  hundred  fish  if  we  skipped  a  hole." 

' '  He  could, ' '  said  I,  '  *  and  what 's  more  to  the 
point,  he  would.  They  were  to  let  us  through — 
on  request. ' ' 

Wally  sighed. 

"I've  tried  one  method  of  approach,"  said 
he,  "and  now  I'll  try  another  one.  I  might  tell 
'em  that  I  bet  two  hundred  dollars  on  the  sus 
picion  that  they  were  gentlemen,  but  likely 
they'd  want  me  to  split  the  winnings.  They 
look  like  that  sort. ' ' 

Number  Seven  was  a  gift  on  a  golden  platter. 
[30] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO    THEOUGH ! 

I  won  it  with  a  frightful  eight,  getting  into  all 
sorts  of  grief  along  the  way,  but  "Wally  was  en 
tirely  up  in  the  air  and  blew  the  short  putt 
which  should  have  given  him  a  half. 

' '  All  square ! ' '  said  he.  '  *  Fair  enough !  Now 
we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see ! ' ' 

His  chin  was  very  much  in  evidence  as  he 
hiked  to  Number  Eight  tee,  and  he  lost  no  time 
getting  into  action.  Colonel  Peck  was  prepar 
ing  to  drive  as  Wally  hove  alongside.  The 
Colonel  is  very  fussy  about  his  drive.  He  has 
been  known  to  send  a  caddie  to  the  clubhouse  for 
whispering  on  the  bench.  Wally  walked  up  be 
hind  him. 

* ' Stand  still,  young  man !  Can't  you  see  I'm 
driving?" 

It  was  in  the  nature  of  a  royal  command. 

"Oh!"  said  Wally.  "Meaning  me,  I  pre 
sume.  Do  you  know,  it  strikes  me  that  for  a 
golfer  with  absolutely  no  consideration  for 
others,  you're  quite  considerate — of  yourself!" 

Now  I  had  always  sized  up  the  Colonel  for  a 
bluffer.  He  proved  himself  one  by  turning  a 
rich  maroon  colour  and  trying  to  swallow  his 
Adam's  apple.  Not  a  word  came  from  him. 

"Quiet,"  murmured  old  Peebles,  who  looks 
exactly  like  a  sheep.  "Absolute  quiet,  please." 

Wally  rounded  on  him  like  a  flash. 

"Another  considerate  golfer,  eh?"  he 
snapped.  "Now,  gentlemen,  under  the  rules 
governing  tournament  play  I  demand  for  my 
opponent  and  myself  the  right  to  go  through. 

[31] 


FOEE! 

There  are  open  holes  ahead;  you  are  not  hold 
ing  your  place  on  the  course— 

"Drive,  Jim,"  interposed  Watlington  in  that 
quiet  way  of  his.  "Don't  pay  any  attention  to 
him.  Drive. ' ' 

"But  how  can  I  drive  while  he's  hopping  up 
and  down  behind  me!  He  puts  me  all  off  my 
swing ! ' ' 

"I'm  glad  my  protest  has  some  effect  on 
you,"  said  Wally.  "Xow  I  understand  that 
some  of  you  are  members  of  the  Greens  Com 
mittee  of  this  club.  As  a  member  of  the  said 
club,  I  wish  to  make  a  formal  request  that  we  be 
allowed  to  pass." 

"Denied,"  said  Watlington.    "Drive,  Jim." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  refuse  us  our 
rights — that  you  won't  let  us  through?" 

"Absolutely,"  murmured  old  Peebles.  "Ab 
solutely." 

' '  But  why-— why  ?    On  what  grounds  ? ' ' 

"On  the  grounds  that  you're  too  fresh,"  said 
Colonel  Peck.  "On  the  grounds  that  we  don't 
want  you  to  go  through.  Sit  down  and  cool 
off." 

"Drive,  Jim,"  said  Watlington.  "You  talk 
too  much,  young  man. ' ' 

"Wait  a  second,"  said  Wally.  "I  want  to 
get  you  all  on  record.  I  have  made  a  courteous 
request " 

"And  it  has  been  refused,"  said  old  Peebles, 
blinking  at  both  of  us.  "Gentlemen,  you  can't 
go  through ! ' ' 

[32] 


GENTLEMEN,    ,YOU    CAN  JT    GO    TIIEOUGH  ! 

"Is  that  final?" 

"It  is — absolutely." 

And  Watlington  and  Peck  nodded. 

"Drive,  Jim!" 

This  time  it  was  Hamilton  who  spoke. 

' '  Pardon  me, ' '  said  Wally.  He  skipped  out  in 
front  of  the  tee,  lifted  his  cap  and  made  a  low 
bow.  "Members  of  the  Greens  Committee," 
said  he,  "and  one  other  hog  as  yet  unclassified, 
you  are  witnesses  that  I  default  my  match  to 
Mr.  Curtiss.  I  do  this  rather  than  be  forced  to 
play  behind  four  such  pitiable  dubs  as  you  are. 
Golf  is  a  gentleman 's  game,  which  doubtless  ac 
counts  for  your  playing  it  so  poorly.  They  tell 
me  that  you  never  let  any  one  through.  God 
giving  me  strength,  the  day  will  come  when  you 
will  not  only  allow  people  to  pass  you,  but  you 
will  beg  them  to  do  it.  Make  a  note  of  that. 
Come  along,  Curtiss.  We'll  play  the  last  nine 
— for  the  fun  of  the  thing." 

'  *  Oh,  Curtiss ! "  It  was  Watlington  speaking. 
"How  many  did  you  have  him  down  when  he 
quit?" 

The  insult  would  have  made  a  saint  angry, 
but  no  saint  on  the  calendar  could  have  sum 
moned  the  vocabulary  with  which  Wally  replied. 
It  was  a  wonderful  exhibition  of  blistering  in 
vective.  Watlington 's  thick  hide  stood  him  in 
good  stead.  He  did  not  turn  a  hair  or.  bat  an 
eye,  but  waited  for  Wally  to  run  out  of  breath. 
Then: 

"Drive,  Jim,"  said  he. 
[33] 


FOEE  ! 

Now  I  did  not  care  to  win  that  match  by  de 
fault,  and  I  did  everything  in  my  power  to  ar 
range  the  matter  otherwise.  I  offered  to  play 
the  remaining  holes  later  in  the  day,  or  skip  the 
eighth  and  begin  all  square  on  the  ninth  tee. 

"Nothing  doing, "  said  Wally.  "You're  a 
good  sport,  but  there  are  other  men  still  in  the 
tournament,  and  we're  not  allowed  to  concede 
anything.  The  default  goes,  but  tell  me  one 
thing — why  didn't  you  back  me  up  on  that 
kick?" 

I  was  afraid  he  had  noticed  that  I  had  been 
pretty  much  in  the  background  throughout,  so 
when  he  asked  me  I  told  him  the  truth. 

"Just  a  matter  of  bread  and  butter/'  said  I. 
"My  uncle's  law  firm  handles  all  the  Midland's 
business.  I'm  only  the  junior  member,  but  I 
can't  afford " 

"The  Midland!"  asked  Wally. 

"Yes,  the  Midland  Manufacturing  Company 
— Peck,  Peebles  and  Hamilton.  Watlington's 
money  is  invested  in  the  concern  too. ' ' 

'  *  Why, ' '  said  Wally,  ' '  that 's  the  entire  gang, 
isn't  it — Greens  Committee  and  all?" 

"The  Big  Four,"  said  I.  "You  can  see  how 
it  is.  They're  rather  important — as  clients. 
There  has  been  no  end  of  litigation  over  the 
site  for  that  new  plant  of  theirs  down  on  Third 
Avenue,  and  we've  handled  all  of  it." 

But  Wally  hadn't  been  listening  to  me. 

"So  all  the  eggs  are  in  one  basket!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "That  simplifies  matters.  Now,  if 

[34] 


GENTLEMEN,   ,YOTJ    CAN'T   GO    THKOUGH ! 


What  are  you  talking  about  ? "  I  demanded. 

< '  Blest  if  I  know ! ' '  said  Wally. 

So  far  as  I  could  learn  no  official  action  was 
taken  by  the  Big  Four  because  of  conduct  and 
language  unbecoming  a  gentleman  and  a  golfer. 
Before  I  left  the  clubhouse  I  had  a  word  or  two 
with  Peebles.  He  was  sitting  at  a  table  in  the 
corner  of  the  lounging  room,  nibbling  at  a  piece 
of  cheese  and  looking  as  meek  as  Moses. 

""We — ah — considered  the  source,"  said  he. 
* '  The  boy  is  young  and — rash,  quite  rash.  His 
father  was  a  mule-skinner — it's  in  the  blood — 
can't  help  it  possibly.  Yes,  we  considered  the 
source.  Absolutely!" 

I  didn't  see  very  much  of  Wally  after  that, 
but  I  understood  that  he  played  the  course  in 
the  mornings  and  gave  the  club  a  wide  berth  on 
Wednesdays  and  Saturdays.  His  default  didn't 
help  me  any.  I  was  handsomely  licked  in  the 
finals — four  and  three,  I  believe  it  was.  About 
that  time  something  happened  which  knocked 
golf  completely  out  of  my  mind. 


rv 

I  was  sitting  in  my  office  one  morning  when 
Atkinson,  of  the  C.  Gr.  &  N.,  called  me  on  the 
phone.  The  railroad  offices  are  in  the  same 
building,  on  the  floor  above  ours. 

[35] 


FOBE! 

i  "That  you,  Curtiss?  I'll  be  right  down.  I 
want  to  see  you. ' ' 

Now,  our  firm  handles  the  legal  end  for  the 
C.  Gr.  &  N.,  and  it  struck  me  that  Atkinson's 
voice  had  a  nervous  worried  ring  to  it.  I  was 
wondering  what  could  be  the  matter,  when  he 
came  breezing  in  all  out  of  breath. 

"You  told  me,"  said  he,  "that  there  wouldn't 
be  any  trouble  about  that  spur  track  along  Third 
Avenue. ' ' 

"For  the  Midland  people,  you  mean?  Oh, 
that's  arranged  for.  All  we  have  to  do  is  ap 
pear  before  the  City  Council  and  make  the  re 
quest  for  a  permit.  To-morrow  morning  it 
comes  off.  What  are  you  so  excited  about  ? ' ' 

*  *  This, ' '  said  Atkinson.  He  pulled  a  big  red 
handbill  out  of  his  pocket  and  unfolded  it. 
"Possibly  I'm  no  judge,  Curtiss,  but  this  seems 
to  be  enough  to  excite  anybody." 

I  spread  the  thing  out  on  my  desk  and  took  a 
look  at  it.  Across  the  top  was  one  of  those 
headlines  that  hit  you  right  between  the  eyes : 

SHALL  THE  CITY  COUNCIL 
LICENSE  CHILD  MURDER? 

Well,  that  was  a  fair  start,  you'll  admit,  but 
it  went  on  from  there.  I  don't  remember  ever 
reading  anything  quite  so  vitriolic.  It  was  a 
bitter  attack  on  the  proposed  spur  track  along 
Third  Avenue,  which  is  the  habitat  of  the  down 
trodden  workingman  and  the  playground  of  his 

[36] 


GENTLEMEN,   ,YOU    CAX  ?T    GO    THEOUGH ! 

children.  Judging  solely  by  the  handbill,  any 
one  would  have  thought  that  the  main  idea  of 
the  C.  G.  &  N.  was  to  kill  and  maim  as  many 
toddling  infants  as  possible.  The  Council  was 
made  an  accessory  before  the  fact,  and  the  thing 
wound  up  with  an  appeal  to  class  prejudice  and 
a  ringing  call  to  arms. 

"Men  of  Third  Avenue,  shall  the  City  Coun 
cil  give  to  the  bloated  bondholders  of  an  impu 
dent  monopoly  the  right  to  torture  and  murder 
your  innocent  babes?  Shall  your  street  be 
turned  into  a  speedway  for  a  modern  car  of 
Juggernaut?  Let  your  answer  be  heard  in  the 
Council  Chamber  to-morrow  morning — 'No,  a 
thousand  times,  no!' 

I  read  it  through  to  the  end.    Then  I  whistled. 

"This,"  said  I,  "is  hot  stuff— very  hot  stuff! 
Where  did  it  come  from?" 

"The  whole  south  end  of  town  is  plastered 
with  bills  like  it,"  said  Atkinson  glumly. 
""What  have  we  done  now,  that  they  should  be 
picking  on  us?  When  have  we  killed  any  chil 
dren,  I  would  like  to  know?  What  started  this ? 
Who  started  it?  Why?" 

' '  That  isn  't  the  big  question, ' '  said  I.  ' '  The 
big  question  is:  Will  the  City  Council  stand1 
hitched  in  the  face  of  this  attack?" 

The  door  opened  and  the  answer  to  that  ques 
tion  appeared — Barney  MacShane,  officially  of 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  City  Council  of  our  fair 
city,  in  reality  the  guiding  spirit  of  that  body  of 
petty  pirates.  Barney  was  moist  and  nervous, 

[37] 


FORE! 

and  ho  held  one  of  the  bills  in  his  right  hand. 
His  first  words  were  not  reassuring. 

' 'All  hell  is  loose — loose  for  fair!"  said  he. 
"Take  a  look  at  this  thing." 

"We  have  already  been  looking  at  it,"  said  I 
with  a  laugh  intended  to  be  light  and  care-free. 
"What  of  it?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  are  going  to  let  a  mere  scrap  of  paper 
bother  you?" 

Barney  mopped  his  forehead  and  sat  down 
heavily. 

"You  can  laugh,"  said  he,  "but  there  is  more 
than  paper  behind  this.  The  whole  west  end  of 
town  is  up  in  arms  overnight,  and  I  don't  know 
why.  Nobody  ever  kicked  up  such  a  rumpus 
about  a  spur  track  before.  That's  my  ward, 
you  know,  and  I  just  made  my  escape  from  a 
deputation  of  women  and  children.  They  treed 
me  at  the  City  Hall — before  all  the  newspaper 
men — and  they  held  their  babies  up  in  their 
arms  and  they  dared  me — yes,  dared  me — to  let 
this  thing  go  through.  And  the  election  coming 
on  and  all.  It 's  hell,  that 's  what  it  is ! " 

"But,  Barney,"  I  argued,  "we  are  not  asking 
for  anything  which  the  city  should  not  be  glad 
to  grant.  Think  what  it  means  to  your  ward  to 
have  this  fine  big  manufacturing  plant  in  it! 
Think  of  the  men  who  will  have  work " 

"I'm  thinking  of  them,"  said  Barney  sorrow 
fully.  "They're  coming  to  the  Council  meeting 
to-morrow  morning,  and  if  this  thing  goes 
through  I  may  as  well  clean  out  my  desk.  Yes, 

[38] 


GENTLEMEN",  ,YOTJ    CAN'T    GO    THROUGH! 

they're  coining,  and  so  are  their  wives  and  their 
children,  and  they'll  bring  transparencies  and 
banners  and  God  knows  what  all " 

' '  But  listen,  Barney !  This  plant  means  pros 
perity  to  every  one  of  your  people " 

"They're  saying  they'll  make  it  an  issue  in 
the  next  campaign,"  mumbled  MacShane. 
"They  say  that  if  that  spur  track  goes  down  on 
Third  Avenue  it's  me  out  of  public  life — and 
they  mean  it  too.  God  knows  what's  got  into 
them  all  at  once — they  're  like  a  nest  of  hornets. 
And  the  women  voting  now  too.  That  makes  it 
bad — awful  bad !  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
any  agitation  with  children  mixed  up  in  it  is  the 
toughest  thing  in  the  world  to  meet."  He 
struck  at  the  poster  with  a  sudden  spiteful  ges 
ture.  "From  beginning  to  end,"  he  snarled, 
"it's  just  an  appeal  not  to  let  the  railroad  kill 
the  kids!" 

' '  But  that 's  nonsense — bunk ! ' '  said  Atkinson. 
"Every  precaution  will  be  taken  to  prevent  ac 
cidents.  You've  got  to  think  of  the  capital  in 
vested." 

Barney  rolled  a  troubled  eye  in  his  direction. 

"You  go  down  on  Third  Avenue,"  said  he, 
"and  begin  talking  to  them  people  about  cap 
ital  !  Try  it  once.  What  the  hell  do  they  care 
about  capital?  They  was  brought  up  to  hate 
the  sound  of  the  word !  You  know  and  I  know 
that  capital  ain't  near  as  black  as  it's  painted, 
but  can  you  tell  them  that  ?  Huh !  And  a  rail- 

[39] 


FORE! 

road  ain't  ever  got  any  friends  in  a  gang  stand 
ing  round  on  the  street  corners!" 

"But,"  said  I,  "this  isn't  a  question  of 
friends — it's  a  straight  proposition  of  right  and 
wrong.  The  Midland  people  have  gone  ahead 
and  put  up  this  big  plant.  They  were  given  to 
understand  that  there  would  be  no  opposition  to 
the  spur  track  going  down.  They've  got  to  have 
it !  The  success  of  their  business  depends  on  it ! 
Surely  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  the  Coun 
cil  will  refuse  this  permit?" 

"Well,"  said  Barney  slowly,  "I've  talked 
with  the  boys — Carter  and  Garvey  and  Dillon. 
They're  all  figuring  on  running  again,  and 
they're  scared  to  death  of  it.  Garvey  says  we'd 
be  damned  fools  to  go  against  an  agitation  like 
this — so  close  to  election,  anyhow." 

I  argued  the  matter  from  every  angle — the 
good  of  the  city ;  the  benefit  to  Barney 's  ward — 
but  I  couldn't  budge  him. 

' '  They  say  that  the  voice  of  the  people  is  the 
voice  of  God,"  said  he,  "but  we  know  that  most 
of  the  time  it's  only  noise.  Sometimes  the  noise 
kind  of  dies  out,  and  then's  the  time  to  step  in 
and  cut  the  melon.  But  any  kind  of  noise  so 
close  to  election?  Huh!  Safety  first!" 

Before  the  meeting  adjourned  it  was  aug 
mented  by  the  appearance  of  the  president  and 
vice-president  of  the  Midland  Manufacturing 
Company,  Colonel  Jim  Peck  and  old  Peebles, 
and  never  had  I  seen  those  stiff-necked  gentle 
men  so  humanly  agitated. 

[40] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO    THROUGH ! 

"This  is  terrible!"  stormed  the  Colonel, 
"Terrible!  This  is  unheard  of!  It  is  an  out^ 
rage — a  crime — a  crying  shame  to  the  city! 
Think  of  our  investment!  Other  manufactur 
ing  plants  got  their  spur  tracks  for  the  asking. 
There  was  no  talk  of  killing  children.  Why — 
why  have  we  been  singled  out  for  attack — for — 
for  blackmail?" 

"You  can  cut  out  that  kind  of  talk  right 
now!"  said  Barney  sternly.  "There  ain't  a 
nickel  in  granting  this  permit,  and  you  know  it 
as  well  as  I  do.  Nobody  ain't  trying  to  black 
mail  you!  All  the  dough  in  town  won't  swing 
the  boys  into  line  behind  this  proposition  while 
this  rumpus  is  going  on.  And  since  you're  tak 
ing  that  slant  at  it,  here's  the  last  word — sit 
tight  and  wait  till  after  election!" 

* '  But  the  pi-plant ! ' '  bleated  Peebles,  tearing 
a  blotter  to  shreds  wTith  shaking  fingers.  "The 
plant !  Think  of  the  loss  of  time — and  we — we 
expected  to  open  up  next  month ! " 

"Go  ahead  and  open  up,"  said  Barney. 
"You  can  truck  your  stuff  to  the  depots,  can't 
you?  Yes,  yes — I  get  you  about  the  loss!  Us 
boys  in  the  Council — we  got  something  to  lose 
too.  Now  here  it  is,  straight  from  the  shoulder, 
and  you  can  bet  on  it."  Barney  spoke  slowly, 
wagging  his  forefinger  at  each  word.  "If  that 
application  comes  up  to-morrow  morning,  with 
the  Council  chamber  jammed  with  folks  from 
the  south  end  of  the  town — good-a-by,  John! 
Fare  thee  well!  It  ain't  in  human  nature  to 

[41] 


POKE! 

commit  political  suicide  when  a  second  term  is 
making  eyes  at  you.  Look  at  our  end  of  it  for 
a  while.  We  got  futures  to  think  of,  too,  and 
Crarvey — Garvey  wants  to  run  for  mayor  some 
day.  You  can't  afford  to  have  that  application 
iurned  down,  can  you?  Of  course  not.  Have  a 
little  sense.  Keep  your  shirts  on.  Get  out  and 
;see  who's  behind  this  thing.  Chances  are  some 
body  wants  something.  Find  out  what  it  is — 
rig  up  a  compromise — get  him  to  call  off  the 
dogs.  Then  talk  to  me  again,  and  I'll  promise 
you  it'll  go  through  as  slick  as  a  greased  pig!" 

"I  believe  there's  something  in  that,"  said  T. 
" We've  never  run  into  such  a  hornets'  nest  as 
this  before.  There  must  be  a  reason.  Atkin 
son,  you've  got  a  lot  of  gumshoe  men  on  your 
staff.  Why  don't  you  turn  'em  loose  to  locate 
this  opposition?" 

"  You  're  about  two  hours  late  with  that  sug 
gestion,"  said  the  railroad  representative. 
"Our  sleuths  are  on  the  job  now.  If  they  find 
out  anything  I'll  communicate  with  you  P.  D. 
Q." 

"Good!"  ejaculated  Colonel  Peck.  "And  if 
it's  money 

"Aw,  you  make  me  sick!"  snapped  Barney 
MacShane.  "You  think  money  can  do  every 
thing,  don 't  you  I  Well,  it  can 't !  For  one  thing, 
it  couldn't  get  me  to  shake  hands  with  a  stiff 
like  you!" 

I  was  called  away  from  the  dinner  table  on 

[42] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN'T    GO    THROUGH! 

the  following  Friday  evening.  Watlington  was 
on  the  telephone. 

"That  you,  Curtiss?  Well,  we  think  we've 
got  in  touch  with  the  bug  under  the  chip.  Can 
you  arrange  to  meet  us  in  Room  85  at  the  Hotel 
Brookmore  at  nine  to-night1?  .  .  .  No,  I  can't 
tell  you  a  thing  about  it.  We're  asked  to  be 
there — you're  asked  to  be  there — and  that's  as 
far  as  my  information  goes.  Don 't  be  late. ' ' 

When  I  entered  Room  85  four  men  were 
seated  at  a  long  table.  They  were  Elsberry  J. 
Watlington,  Colonel  Jim  Peck,  Samuel  Alex 
ander  Peebles  and  W.  Cotton  Hamilton.  They 
greeted  me  with  a  certain  amount  of  nervous 
irritability.  The  Big  Four  had  been  through  a 
cruel  week  and  showed  the  marks  of  strain. 

"Where's  Atkinson?"  I  asked. 

"It  was  stipulated,  expressly  stipulated," 
said  old  Peebles,  "that  only  the  five  of  us  should 
be  present.  The  whole  thing  is  most  mysteri 
ous.  I — I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it." 

' '  Probably  a  hold-up ! ' '  grunted  Colonel  Peck. 

Watlington  didn't  say  anything.  He  had 
aged  ten  years,  his  heavy  smooth-shaven  face 
was  set  in  stern  lines  and  his  mouth  looked  as  if 
it  might  have  been  made  with  a  single  slash  of  a 
razor. 

Hamilton  mumbled  to  himself  and  kept  try 
ing  to  light  the  end  of  his  thumb  instead  of  his 
cigar.  Peck  had  his  watch  in  his  hand.  Peebles 
played  a  tattoo  on  his  chin  with  his  fingers. 

"Good  thing  we  didn't  make  that  application 
[43] 


FOKE! 

at  the  Council  meeting,"  said  Hamilton.  "I 
never  saw  such  a  gang  of  thugs ! ' ' 

"Male  and  female!"  added  Colonel  Peck. 
"Well,  time's  up!  Whoever  he  is,  I  hope  he 
won't  keep  us  waiting!" 

"Ah!"  said  a  cheerful  voice.  "You  don't 
like  to  be  held  up  on  the  tee,  do  you,  Colonel?" 

There  in  the  doorway  stood  Wally  Wallace, 
beaming  upon  the  Big  Four.  Not  even  on  the 
stage  have  I  ever  seen  anything  to  match  j;he 
expressions  on  the  faces  round  that  table.  Old 
Peebles'  mouth  kept  opening  and  shutting,  like 
the  mouth  of  a  fresh  caught  carp.  The  others 
were  frozen,  petrified.  Wally  glanced  at  me  as 
he  advanced  into  the  room,  and  there  was  a 
faint  trembling  of  his  left  eyelid. 

"Well,"  said  Wally  briskly,  "shall  we  pro 
ceed  with  the  business  of  the  meeting!" 

"Business!"  Colonel  Peck  exploded  like  a 
firecracker. 

"With — you?"  It  was  all  Watlington  could 
do  to  tear  the  two  words  out  of  his  throat.  He 
croaked  like  a  big  bullfrog. 

"With  me,"  said  Wally,  bowing  and  taking 
his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table.  "Unless,'* 
he  added,  "you  would  prefer  to  discuss  the  sit 
uation  with  the  rank  and  file  of  the  Third  Ave 
nue  Country  Club." 

The  silence  which  followed  that  remark  was 
impressive.  I  could  hear  somebody's  heart 
beating.  It  may  have  been  my  own.  As  usual 
Colonel  Peck  was  first  to  recover  the  power  of 

[44] 


GENTLEMEN,    YOU    CAN  ?T    GO    THEOUGH ! 

speech,  and  again  as  usual  he  made  poor  use 
of  it. 

' '  You — you  young  whelp ! "  he  gurgled.  i '  So 
it  was " 

' '  Shut  up,  Jim ! ' '  growled  Watlington,  whose 
eyes  had  never  left  Wally's  face.  Hamilton 
carefully  placed  his  cigar  in  the  ashtray  and 
tried  to  put  a  match  into  his  mouth.  Then  he 
turned  on  me,  sputtering. 

"Are  you  in  on  this!"  he  demanded. 

' l  Be  perfectly  calm, ' '  said  Wally.  ' '  Mr.  Cur- 
tiss  is  not  in  on  it,  as  you  so  elegantly  express 
it.  I  am  the  only  one  who  is  in  on  it.  Me,  my 
self,  W.  W.  Wallace,  at  your  service.  If  you 
will  favour  me  with  your  attention,  I  will  ex 
plain " 

"You'd  better!"  ripped  out  the  Colonel. 

"Ah,"  said  the  youngster,  grinning  at  Peck, 
"always  a  little  nervous  on  the  tee,  aren't 
you?" 

"Drive,  young  man!"  said  Watlington. 

A  sudden  light  flickered  in  Wally's  eyes.  He 
turned  to  Elsberry  J.  with  an  expression  that 
was  almost  friendly. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  he,  "I'm  beginning  to 
think  there  may  be  human  qualities  in  you  after 
aH." 

Watlington  grunted  and  nodded  his  head. 

' '  Take  the  honour ! ' '  said  he. 

Wally  rose  and  laid  the  tips  of  his  fingers  on 
the  table. 

"Members  of  the  Greens  Committee  and  one 
[45] 


POKE! 

other" — and  here  he  looked  at  Hamilton,  whose 
face  showed  that  he  had  not  forgotten  the  un 
classified  hog — "we  are  here  this  evening  to  ar 
range  an  exchange  of  courtesies.  You  think 
you  represent  the  Midland  Manufacturing  Com 
pany  at  this  meeting.  You  do  not.  You  repre 
sent  the  Sundown  Golf  and  Country  Club.  I 
represent  the  Third  Avenue  Country  Club — an 
organisation  lately  formed.  You  may  have 
heard  something  of  it,  though  not  under  that 
name. '  ' 

He  paused  to  let  this  sink  in. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "you  may  recall 
that  I  once  made  a  courteous  request  of  you  for 
something  which  was  entirely  within  my  rights. 
You  made  an  arbitrary  ruling  on  that  request. 
You  refused  to  let  me  through.  You  told  me  I 
was  too  fresh,  and  advised  me  to  sit  down  and 
cool  off.  I  see  by  your  faces  that  you  recall  the 
occasion. 

"You  may  ^]so  recall  that  I  promised  to  de 
vote  myself  to  the  task  of  teaching  you  to  be 
more  considerate  of  others.  Gentlemen,  I  am 
the  opposition  to  your  playing  through  on  Third 
Avenue.  I  am  the  Man  Behind.  I  am  the  Voice 
of  the  People.  I  am  a  singleton  on  the  course, 
holding  you  up  while  I  sink  a  putt.  If  you  ask 
me  why,  I  will  give  you  your  own  words  in  your 
teeth:  You  can't  go  through  because  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  through. ' ' 

Here  he  stopped  long  enough  to  light  a  cig 
arette,  and  again  his  left  eyelid  flickered,  though 

[46] 


GENTLEMEN,   ,YOU    CAN 'T    GO    THEOUGH ! 

he  did  not  look  at  me.  T  think  if  he  had  I  should 
have  erupted. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  flipping  the  match  into 
the  air,  "it  has  been  necessary  to  teach  you  a 
lesson — the  lesson,  gentlemen,  of  courtesy  on  the 
course,  consideration  for  others.  I  realised 
that  this  could  never  be  done  on  a  course  where 
you  have  power  to  make  the  rules — or  break 
them.  So  I  selected  another  course.  Members 
of  the  Greens  Committee  and  one  other,  you 
do  not  make  the  rules  on  Third  Avenue.  You 
are  perfectly  within  your  rights  in  asking  to 
go  through;  but  I  have  blocked  you.  I  have 
made  you  sit  down  on  the  bench  and  cool  off. 
Gentlemen,  how  do  you  like  being  held  up  when 
you  want  to  play  through?  How  does  it  feel?" 

I  do  not  regret  my  inability  to  quote  Colonel 
Peck's  reply  to  this  question. 

' '  Quit  it,  Jim ! ' '  snapped  Watlington.  ' '  Your 
bark  was  always  worse  than  your  bite,  and  it's 
not  much  of  a  bark  at  that — *  Sound  an  1  fury,. 
signifying  nothing.'  Young  man,  I  take  it  you 
are  the  chairman  of  the  Greens  Committee  of 
this  Third  Avenue  Country  Club,  empowered  to 
act.  May  I  ask  what  are  our  chances  of  getting 
through?" 

i  "I  know  I'm  going  to  like  you — in  time!" 
exclaimed  Wally.  "I  feel  it  coming  on.  Let's 
see,  to-morrow  is  Saturday,  isn't  it?" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  mumbled 
Hamilton. 

"Much,"  answered  Wally.    "Oh,  much,  I  as- 
[471 


FORE! 

sure  you !  I  expect  to  be  at  the  Sundown  Club 
to-morrow."  His  chin  shot  out  and  his  voice 
carried  the  sting  of  a  lash.  ' '  I  expect  to  see  you 
gentlemen  there,  playing  your  usual  crawling 
foursome.  I  expect  to  see  you  allowing  your 
fellow  members  to  pass  you  on  the  course.  You 
might  even  invite  them  to  come  through — you 
might  insist  on  it,  courteously,  you  understand, 
and  with  such  grace  as  you  may  be  able  to  mus 
ter.  I  want  to  see  every  member  of  that  club 
play  through  you — every  member ! ' ' 

"All  d-damned  nonsense!"  bleated  Peebles, 
sucking  his  fingers. 

"Shut  up!"  ordered  "Watlington  savagely. 
"And,  young  man^  if  we  do  this — what  then?" 

' '  Ah,  then ! ' '  said  Wally.  « '  Then  the  reward 
of  merit.  If  you  show  me  that  you  can  learn  to 
be  considerate  of  others-:— if  you  show  me  that 
you  can  be  courteous  on  the  course  where  you 
make  the  rules — I  feel  safe  in  promising  that 
you  wi'l  be  treated  with  consideration  on  this 
other  course  which  has  been  mentioned.  Yes, 
quite  safe.  In  fact,  gentlemen,  you  may  even  be 
asked  to  play  through  on  Third  Avenue ! ' ' 

"But  this  agitation?"  began  Hamilton. 

""Was  paid  for  by  the  day, ' '  smiled  the  brazen 
rascal,  with  a  graceful  inclination  of  his  head. 
* '  People  may  be  hired  to  do  anything — even  to 
annoy  prominent  citizens  and  frighten  a  City 
Council."  Hamilton  stirred  uneasily,  but 
"Wally  read  his  thought  and  froze  him  with  a 
single  keen  glance.  ' '  Of  course, ' '  said  he, ' '  you 

[48] 


GENTLEMEN,   .YOU    CAN?T   GO    THEOUGH ! 

understand  that  what  has  been  done  once  may 
be  done  again.  Sentiment  crystallises — when 
helped  out  with  a  few  more  red  handbills — a  few 
more  speeches  on  the  street  corners " 

' '  The  point  is  well  taken ! ' '  interrupted  Wat- 
lington  hurriedly.  ' '  Damn  well  taken !  Young 
man,  talk  to  me.  I'm  the  head  of  this  outfit, 
Pay  no  attention  to  Jim  Peck.  He's  nothing 
but  a  bag  of  wind.  Hamilton  doesn't  count. 
His  nerves  are  no  good.  Peebles — he's  an  old 
goat.  I'm  the  one  with  power  to  act.  Talk  to 
me.  Is  there  anything  else  you  want!" 

' '  Nothing, ' '  said  Wally.  ' '  I  think  your  streak 
of  consideration  is  likely  to  prove  a  lasting  one. 
If  not — well,  I  may  have  to  spread  this  story 
round  town  a  bit— 

' '  Oh,  my  Lord ! ' '  groaned  Colonel  Peck. 

It  was  a  noble  and  inspiring  sight  to  see  the 
Big  Four,  caps  in  hand,  inviting  the  common 
people  to  play  through.  The  entire  club 
marched  through  them — too  full  of  amazement 
to  demand  explanations.  Even  Purdue  Mc- 
Cormick,  trudging  along  with  a  putter  in  one 
hand  and  a  mid-iron  in  the  other,  without  a  bag, 
without  a  caddie,  without  a  vestige  of  right  in 
the  wide  world,  even  Purdue  was  coerced  into 
passing  them.  At  dusk  he  was  found  wander 
ing  aimlessly  about  on  the  seventeenth  fairway, 
babbling  to  himself.  We  fear  that  he  will  never 
be  the  same  again. 

I  have  received  word  from  Barney  MacShane 
[49] 


I 

that  the  City  Council  will  be  pleased  to  grant  a 
permit  to  lay  a  spur  track  on  Third  Avenue. 
The  voice  of  the  people,  he  says,  has  died  away 
to  a  faint  murmuring.  Some  day  I  think  I  will 
tell  Barney  the  truth.  He  does  not  play  golf, 
but  he  has  a  sense  of  humour. 


THE  leopard  cannot  change  his  spots — 
possibly  he  wouldn't  if  he  could;  and, 
this  being  the  case,  the  next  best  thing 
is  to  overlook  as  many  of  his  freckles 
as  possible. 

Yesterday  I  sat  on  the  porch  at  the  Country 
Club  and  listened  while  the  Dingbats  said  kind 
and  complimentary  things  about  young 
Ambrose  Phipps,  alias  Little  Poison  Ivy,  alias 
The  Pest,  alias  Rough  and  Reddy.  One  short 
week  ago  the  Dingbats  would  have  voted  him 
a  nuisance  and  a  menace  to  society  in  general. 
Yesterday  they  praised  him  to  the  skies.  It 
just  goes  to  show  that  good  can  be  found  in 
anybody — if  that  is  what  you  are  looking  for. 

Understand  me :  there  has  been  no  change  in 
Ambrose.  He  is  still  as  fresh  as  a  mountain 
breeze.  Unquestionably  he  will  continue  to  treat 
his  elders  with  a  shocking  lack  of  respect  and 
an  entire  absence  of  consideration.  He  was 
born  with  a  deep  depression  where  his  bump 

[51] 


FORE! 

of  reverence  should  have  been  located,  and 
neither  realises  nor  regrets  his  deficiency. 

He  will  never  change.  It  is  the  Dingbats  who 
have  changed.  The  whole  club  has  changed,  so 
far  as  Ambrose  is  concerned. 

We  are  all  trying  to  overlook  the  dark  spots 
in  his  character  and  see  good  in  him,  whether  it 
is  there  or  not. 

Now  as  to  the  Dingbats :  if  you  do  not  know 
them  you  have  missed  something  rich  and  rare 
in  the  golfing  line.  There  are  four  of  them,  all 
retired  capitalists  on  the  shady  side  of  sixty. 
They  freely  admit  that  they  are  the  worst  golf 
ers  in  the  world,  and  in  a  pinch  they  could  prove 
it.  They  play  together  six  days  a  week — a  riot 
ous,  garrulous,  hilarious  foursome,  ripping  the 
course  wide  open  from  the  first  tee  to  the  home 
green;  and  they  get  more  real  fun  out  of  golf 
than  any  men  I  know.  They  never  worry  about 
being  off  their  game,  because  they  have  never 
been  on  it;  they  know  they  can  be  no  worse 
than  they  are  and  they  have  no  hope  of  ever 
being  better;  they  expect  to  play  badly,  and  it 
is  seldom  that  they  are  disappointed.  Whenever 
a  Dingbat  forgets  to  count  his  shots  in  the 
bunkers,  and  comes  home  in  the  nineties,  a  pub 
lic  celebration  takes  place  on  the  clubhouse 
porch. 

Yesterday  it  was  Doc  Pinkinson  who  brought 
in  the  ninety-eight — and  signed  all  the  tags ;  and 
between  libations  they  talked  about  Ambrose 

[52] 


LITTLE    POISOX    IVY 


Phipps,  who  was  practising  brassy  shots  off  the 
grass  beside  the  eighteenth  green. 

Little  Poison  Ivy  was  unusually  cocky,  even 
for  him,  and  every  move  was  a  picture.  At  the 
end  of  his  follow-through  he  would  freeze,  nicely 
balanced  on  the  tip  of  his  right  toe,  elbows  artis 
tically  elevated,  clubhead  up  round  his  neck ;  and 
not  a  muscle  would  he  move  until  the  ball 
stopped  rolling.  He  might  have  been  posing  for 
a  statue  of  the  Perfect  Golfer.  When  he  walked 
it  was  with  a  conscious  little  swagger  and  a 
flirting  of  the  short  tails  of  his  belted  sport 
coat.  He  was  hitting  them  clean,  he  was  hit 
ting  them  far,  he  had  an  audience — and  well  he 
knew  it.  Ambrose  was  in  his  glory  yesterday; 
afternoon ! 

"By  golly!"  exclaimed  Doc  Pinkinson.. 
"  Ain't  that  a  pretty  sight?  Ain't  it  a  treat  to 
see  that  kid  lambaste  the  ball?" 

"Certainly  is,"  agreed  Old  Treanor  with  a 
sigh.  *  *  Perfect  form — that 's  what  he 's  got. ' ' 

"And  confidence  in  himself,"  put  in  Old 
Myles.  "That's  the  big  secret.  You  can  see 
it  in  every  move  he  makes.  Confidence  is  a 
wonderful  thing!" 

"And  youth,"  said  Daddy  Bradshaw. 
"That's  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all.  It's 
his  youth  that  makes  him  so — so  flip.  Got  a  lot 
to  say,  for  a  kid ;  but — somehow  I  always  liked 
him  for  it." 

"Me  too!"  chimed  in  Doc  Pinkinson.  "Dog 
gone  his  skin !  He  used  to  make  me  awful  mad, 

[53] 


FORE  ! 

that  boy.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  I  reckon  I'm  kind  of 
cranky,  anyway.  .  .  .  Yes;  I  always  liked  Am 
brose." 

Now  that  was  all  rot,  and  I  knew  it.  "What's 
more,  the  Dingbats  knew  it  too.  They  hadn't 
always  liked  Ambrose.  A  week  ago  they  would 
have  marked  his  swaggering  gait,  the  tilt  of 
his  chin,  the  conscious  manner  in  which  he  posed 
after  every  shot ;  and  they  would  have  said  Am 
brose  was  showing  off  for  the  benefit  of  the 
female  tea  party  at  the  other  end  of  the  porch — 
and  they  wouldn't  have  made  any  mistake,  at 
that.  \ 

No;  they  hadn't  always  liked  young  Mr. 
Phipps.  Nobody  had  liked  him.  To  be  per 
fectly  frank  about  it,  we  had  disliked  him  openly 
and  cordially,  and  had  been  at  no  pains  to  keep 
him  from  finding  it  out.  We  had  snubbed  him, 
insulted  him  and  ignored  him  on  every  possible 
occasion.  Worst  of  all,  we  had  made  a  singleton 
of  him.  "We  had  forced  him  to  play  alone,  be 
cause  there  wasn't  a  man  in  all  the  club  who 
wanted  him  as  a  partner  or  as  an  opponent. 
There  is  no  meaner  treatment  than  this ;  nor  is 
there  anything  more  pathetically  lonely  than  a 
singleton  on  a  crowded  golf  course.  It  is  noth 
ing  more  or  less  than  a  grown-up  trip  to  Cov 
entry.  I  thought  of  ail  these  things  as  I  listened 
to  the  prattling  of  the  Dingbats. 

"Guess  he  won't  have  any  trouble  getting 
games  now,  hey?"  chuckled  Old  Treanor. 

"Huh!"  grunted  Doc  Pinkinson.  "He's  dated 
[54] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


up  a  week  ahead — with  Moreman  and  that 
bunch!  A  week  ahead!" 

"And  he'll  make  'em  step!"  chirped  Daddy 
Bradshaw.  "Here's  to  him,  boys — a  redhead 
and  a  fighter!  Drink  her  down!" 

"A  redhead  and  a  fighter!"  chorused  the 
Dingbats,  lifting  their  glasses. 

Yes ;  they  drank  to  Ambrose  Phipps,  and  one 
short  week  ago  they  wouldn't  have  tolerated 
him  on  the  same  side  of  the  course  with  them. 
Our  pet  leopard  still  has  his  spots,  but  we  are 
now  viewing  him  in  the  friendly  shade  cast  by 
a  battered  old  silver  cup:  namely  and  to  wit, 
the  Edward  B.  Wimpus  Team  Trophy,  perma 
nently  at  home  on  the  mantelpiece  in  the  loung 
ing  room. 

ii 

Going  back  to  the  beginning,  we  never  had  a 
chance  to  blame  Ambrose  on  the  Membership 
Committee ;  he  slipped  in  on  us  via  the  junior- 
member  clause.  Old  Man  Phipps  does  not  play 
golf ;  but  he  is  a  charter  member  of  the  club  and, 
according  to  the  by-laws,  the  sons  of  members 
between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  twenty-one  en 
joy  all  the  privileges  of  the  institution. 

Ambrose  was  nineteen  when  he  returned 
rather  hurriedly  from  college.  He  did  this  at 
the  earnest  and  unanimous  request  of  the  Fac 
ulty  and,  it  was  whispered,  the  police  depart 
ment  of  the  university  town.  He  hadn't  clone 
much  of  anything,  but  he  had  tried  very  hard 

[55] 


FOBE! 

to  drive  a  touring  car  and  seven  chorus  girls 
through  a  plate-glass  window  into  a  restaurant. 
The  press  agent  of  the  show  saw  his  chance  to 
get  some  publicity  for  the  broilers,  and  after  an 
interview  with  the  Faculty  Ambrose  caught  the 
first  train  for  home. 

Having  nothing  to  do  and  plenty  of  time  in 
which  to  do  it,  Ambrose  decided  to  become  a 
golfer.  Old  Dunn'l  MacQuarrie,  our  profes 
sional,  sold  him  a  large  leather  bag  full  of  tools 
and  gave  him  two  lessons.  Thus  equipped  and 
fortified,  young  Mr.  Phipps  essayed  to  brighten 
our  drab  lives  by  allowing  us  to  play  golf  with 
him.  Now  this  sort  of  thing  may  be  done  in 
some  clubs,  but  not  in  ours.  We  do  not  permit 
our  sacred  institutions  to  be  "rushed"  by  the 
golfing  novice.  We  are  not  snobbish,  but  we 
plead  guilty  to  being  the  least  bit  set  in  our 
ways.  They  are  good  ways,  and  they  suit  us. 
The  club  is  an  old  one,  as  golf  clubs  go  in  this 
country,  and  most  of  the  playing  members  are 
men  past  forty  years  of  age.  Nearly  all  of  the 
foursomes  are  permanent  affairs,  the  same  men 
playing  together  week  after  week,  season  in  and 
season  out.  The  other  matches  are  made  in  ad 
vance,  by  telephone  or  word  of  mouth,  and  the 
member  who  turns  up  minus  a  game  on  Satur 
day  afternoon  is  out  of  luck. 

We  do  not  leap  at  the  stranger  with  open 
arms.  We  do  not  leap  at  him  at  all.  We  stand 
off  and  look  him  over.  We  put  him  on  proba 
tion  ;  and  if  he  shapes  up  well,  and  walks  lightly, 

[56] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


and  talks  softly,  and  does  not  try  to  dynamite 
his  way  into  matches  where  he  is  not  wanted, 
some  day  he  will  be  invited  to  fill  up  a  four 
some.  Invited — make  a  note  of  that.  Now  see 
what  Ambrose  did. 

With  his  customary  lack  of  tact,  he  selected 
the  very  worst  day  in  the  week  to  thrust  him 
self  upon  our  notice.  It  was  a  Saturday,  and 
the  lounging  room  was  crowded  with  members, 
most  of  whom  were  shaking  dice  for  the  lunch 
eons.  With  a  single  exception,  all  the  four 
somes  were  made  up  for  the  afternoon. 

A  short,  sturdily  built  youngster  came 
through  the  doorway  from  the  locker  room  and 
paused  close  to  the  table  where  I  was  sitting. 
His  hair  was  red — the  sort  of  red  that  will  not 
be  ignored — and  he  wore  it  combed  straight 
back  over  the  top  of  his  head.  His  slightly 
irregular  features  were  covered  with  large 
brown  freckles,  and  on  his  upper  lip  was  a  vol 
unteer  crop  of  lightish  fuzz,  which  might,  in 
time,  become  a  moustache.  His  green  sport  coat 
was  new,  his  flannel  trousers  were  new,  his  shoes 
were  new — from  neck  to  sole  he  fairly  shrieked 
with  newness.  Considering  that  he  was  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  club,  a  certain  amount 
of  reticence  would  not  have  hurt  the  young 
man's  entrance ;  but  he  burst  through  the  swing 
ing  door  with  a  skip  and  a  swagger,  and  there 
was  a  broad  grin  on  his  homely  countenance.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  he  expected  to  find  him 
self  among  friends. 

[57] 


FORE! 

"Who  wants  a  game!"  he  cried.  " Don't  all 
speak  at  once,  men!" 

A  few  of  the  members  nearest  the  door 
glanced  up,  eyed  the  youth  curiously,  and  re 
turned  to  their  dice  boxes.  The  others  had  not 
heard  him  at  all.  Harson  and  Billford  looked 
at  me. 

"Who's  the  fresh  kid?"  asked  Billford. 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  Ambrose  Phipps,  only  son 
of  Old  Man  Phipps." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Harson.  "The  living, 
breathing  proof  that  marriage  is  a  failure. 
What 'she  want?" 

Ambrose  himself  answered  the  question.  He 
had  advanced  to  our  table. 

"You  gentlemen  got  a  game?"  he  asked,  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  Billford 's  shoulder. 

Now  if  there  is  anything  that  Billford  loathes 
and  detests,  it  is  familiarity  on  short  acquaint 
ance.  He  hadn't  even  met  this  fresh  youth;  so 
he  shrugged  his  shoulder  in  a  very  pointed  man 
ner  and  glared  at  Ambrose.  The  boy  did  not 
remove  his  hand. 

"  'S  all  right,  old  top,"  said  he  reassuringly. 
"It's  clean — just  washed  it.  Clean  as  your 
shirt."  He  bent  down  and  looked  at  Billford 's 
collar.  "No,"  said  he;  "cleaner.  .  .  .  Well, 
how  about  it  ?  Got  your  game  fixed  up  ? " 

"We  are  waiting  for  a  fourth  man."  I  an 
swered  because  Billford  didn't  seem  able  to  say 
anything;  he  looked  on  the  point  of  exploding. 

"Oh,  a  fourth  man,  eh?  Well,  if  he  doesn't 
[58] 


LITTLE    POISOX    IVY 


turn  up  you  know  me."  And  Ambrose  passed 
on  to  the  next  table. 

" Insufferable  young  rotter!"  snarled  Bill- 
ford. 

" Quite  so,"  said  Harson;  "but  he'll  never 
miss  anything  by  being  too  bashful  to  ask  for 
it.  Look !  He 's  asking  everybody ! ' ' 

Ambrose  made  the  entire  circuit  of  the  room. 
We  could  not  hear  what  he  said,  but  we  felt 
the  chill  he  left  in  his  wake.  Men  glanced  up 
when  he  addressed  them,  stared  for  an  instant, 
and  went  back  to  their  dice.  Some  of  them  were 
polite  in  their  refusals,  some  were  curt,  some 
were  merely  disgusted.  When  he  reached  the 
table  where  Bishop,  Gilmore,  Moreman  and 
Elder  were  sitting,  they  laughed  at  him.  They 


The  Dingbats  were  too  much  astonished  to  show 
resentment;  but  when  Ambrose  left  them  he 
patted  Doc  Pinkinson  on  the  head,  and  the  old 
gentleman  sputtered  for  the  best  part  of  an 
hour. 

It  was  a  discouraging  tour,  and  any  one  else 
would  have  hunted  a  quiet  corner  and  crawled 
into  it;  but  not  Ambrose.  He  returned  to  our 
end  of  the  room,  and  the  pleased  and  expectant 
light  in  his  eyes  had  given  way  to  a  steely  glare. 
He  beckoned  to  one  of  the  servants. 

" Hey,  George !  Who's  the  boss  here?  Who's 
the  Big  Finger?" 

"Misteh  Harson,  he's  one  of  'em,  suh.  He's 
a  membeh  of  the  Greens  Committee." 

[59] 


FORE  ! 

"Show  him  to  me!" 

"Bight  there,  suh,  settin'  by  the  window." 

Ambrose  strode  across  to  us  and  addressed 
himself  to  Harson. 

"My  name  is  Phipps,"  said  he.  "I'm  a  jun 
ior  member  here,  registered  and  all  that,  and  I 
want  to  get  a  game  this  afternoon.  So  far,  I 
haven't  had  any  luck." 

Harson  is  really  a  mild  and  kindly  soul.  He 
hates  to  hurt  any  one's  feelings. 

"Perhaps  all  the  games  are  made  up,"  he 
suggested.  ' '  Saturday  is  a  bad  day,  unless  your 
match  is  arranged  beforehand." 

"Zat  so?  Humph!  Nice  clubby  spirit  you 
have  here.  You  make  a  fellow  feel  so  much  at 
home!" 

"So  we  notice,"  grunted  Billford. 

Ambrose  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  It  wasn't 
exactly  a  pleasant  smile.  Then  he  turned  back 
to  Harson. 

"How  about  that  fourth  man  of  yours?"  he 
demanded.  "Has  he  shown  up  yet?" 

Billford  caught  my  eye. 

"Some  one  must  have  left  the  outside  door 
open,"  said  he.  "Seems  to  me  I  feel  a  strong 
draught." 

"Put  on  another  shirt!"  Ambrose  shot  the 
retort  without  an  instant's  hesitation.  "Now 
say,  if  your  fourth  man  isn't  here,  what's  the 
matter  with  me  ? ' ' 

"Possibly  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with 
[60] 


LITTLE   POISON    IVY 


you,"  said  Harson  pleasantly;  "but  if  you  are 
a  beginner 

"Aw,  you  don't  need  to  be  afraid  of  my 
game!"  grinned  Ambrose.  "I'll  be  easy  pick 
ing." 

"That  isn't  the  point,"  explained  Harson. 
"Our  game  would  be  too  fast  for  you." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  How  am  I  ever  going  to 
learn  if  I  never  play  with  anybody  better  than 
I  am?  Don't  you  take  any  interest  in  young 
blood,  or  is  this  a  close  corporation,  run  for 
the  benefit  of  a  lot  of  old  fossils,  playing  hooky 
from  the  boneyard?" 

"Oh,  run  away,  little  boy,  and  sell  your  pa 
pers!"  Billford  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer. 

' '  I  will  if  you  lend  me  that  shirt  for  a  make 
up!"  snapped  Ambrose.  "Now  don't  get  mad, 
Cutie.  Eemember,  you  picked  on  me  first.  A 
man  with  a  neck  as  thick  as  yours  ought  not 
to  let  his  angry  passions  rise.  First  thing  you 
know,  you'll  bust  something  in  that  bonemeal 
mill  of  yours,  and  then  you  won't  know  any 
thing."  Ambrose  put  his  hands  on  his  hips  and 
surveyed  the  entire  gathering.  "A  nice,  cheer 
ful,  clubby  bunch ! "  he  exclaimed.  l '  Gee !  What 
a  picnic  a  hermit  crab  could  have  in  this  place, 
meeting  so  many  congenial  souls!" 

"If  you  don't  like  it,"  said  Billford,  "you 
don 't  have  to  stay  here  a  minute. ' ' 

' '  That 's  mighty  sweet  of  you, ' '  said  Ambrose ; 
"but,  you  see,  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  learn 
this  fool  game  if  it  takes  all  summer.  I'd  hate 

[61] 


FORE! 

to  quit  now,  even  to  oblige  people  who  have  been 
so  courteous  to  me.  .  .  .  Well,  good-by,  you 
frozen  stiffs!  Maybe  I  can  hire  that  sour  old 
Scotchman  to  go  round  with  me.  He's  not  what 
you  might  call  a  cheerful  companion,  but,  at 
that,  he's  got  something  on  you.  He's  human, 
anyway ! ' ' 

Ambrose  went  outside  and  banged  the  door 
behind  him.  Billford  made  a  few  brief  observa 
tions;  but  his  remarks,  though  vivid  and  strik 
ing,  were  not  quite  original.  Harson  shook  his 
head,  and  in  the  silence  following  Ambrose's 
exit  we  heard  Doc  Pinkinson's  voice: 

"If  that  pup  was  mine  I'd  drown  him;  dog 
gone  me  if  I  wouldn't!" 

Young  Mr.  Phipps,  you  will  observe,  got  in 
wrong  at  the  very  start. 

in 

Bad  news  travels  fast  when  a  few  press  agents 
get  behind  it,  and  not  all  the  personal  publicity 
is  handed  out  by  a  man's  loving  friends.  Those 
who  had  met  Ambrose  warned  those  who  had 
not,  and  whenever  his  fiery  red  head  appeared 
in  the  lounging  room  there  was  a  startling  drop 
in  the  temperature. 

For  a  few  weeks  he  persisted  in  trying  to 
secure  matches  with  members  of  the  club,  but 
nobody  would  have  anything  to  do  with  him — 
not  even  old  Purdue  McCormick,  who  toddles 
about  the  course  with  a  niblick  in  one  hand  and 

[62] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


a  midiron  in  the  other,  sans  bag,  sans  caddie, 
sans  protection  of  the  game  laws.  "When  such 
a  renegade  as  Purdue  refused  to  go  turf -tearing 
with  him  Ambrose  gave  up  in  disgust  and  de 
voted  himself  to  the  serious  business  of  learning 
the  royal  and  ancient  game.  He  infested  the 
course  from  dawn  till  dark,  a  solitary  figure 
against  the  sky  line;  our  golfing  Ishmael,  a 
wild  ass  loose  upon  the  links,  his  hand  against 
every  man  and  every  man's  hand  against  him. 

He  wore  a  chip  on  his  shoulder  for  all  of  us ; 
and  it  was  during  this  period  that  Anderson,  our 
club  champion  and  Number  One  on  the  team, 
christened  Ambrose  "Little  Poison  Ivy,"  be 
cause  of  the  irritating  effect  of  personal  contact 
with  him. 

Ambrose  couldn't  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
fun  out  of  the  situation;  but  MacQuarrie  made 
money  out  of  it.  The  redhead  hired  the  pro 
fessional  to  play  with  him  and  criticise  his  shots. 
The  dour  old  Scotch  mercenary  did  not  like  Am 
brose  any  better  than  we  did,  but  toward  the 
end  of  the  first  month  he  admitted  to  me  that 
the  boy  had  the  makings  of  a  star  golfer,  though 
not,  he  was  careful  to  explain,  "the  pr-roper 
temperament  for  the  game. ' ' 

"But  it's  just  amazin',  the  way  he  picks  up 
the  shots, ' '  said  Dunn  '1.  ' l  Ay,  he  '11  have  every 
thing  but  the  temperament. ' ' 

As  the  summer  drew  to  a  close  the  annual 
team  matches  began,  and  we  forgot  Ambrose 

[63] 


FOEE! 

and  all  else  in  our  anxiety  over  the  fate  of  the 
Edward  B.  Wimpus  Trophy. 

Every  golf  club,  you  must  know,  has  its  pet 
trophy.  Ours  is  the  worn  old  silver  cup  that 
represents  the  team  championship  of  the 
Association.  A  pawnbroker  wouldn't  look  at  it 
twice;  but  to  us,  who  are  familiar  with  its  his 
tory  and  the  trips  it  has  made  to  different  club 
houses,  the  Edward  B.  Wimpus  Trophy  is  price 
less,  and  more  to  be  desired  than  diamonds  or 
pearls. 

"When  the  late  Mr.  Wimpus  donated  the  cup 
he  stipulated  that  it  should  be  held  in  trust 
by  the  club  winning  the  annual  team  champion 
ship,  and  that  it  should  become  the  property 
of  the  club  winning  it  three  times  in  succession. 
For  twenty  years  we  had  been  fighting  for  per 
manent  possession  of  the  trophy,  and  engraved 
on  its  shining  surface  was  the  record  of  our  bit 
ter  disappointment — not  to  mention  the  disap 
pointment  of  the  Bellevue  Golf  Club.  Twice 
we  had  been  in  a  position  to  add  the  third  and 
final  victory,  and  twice  the  Bellevue  quintet  had 
dashed  our  hopes.  Twice  we  had  retaliated  by 
preventing  them  from  retiring  the  Wimpus 
Trophy  from  competition;  and  now,  with  two 
winning  years  behind  us  and  a  third  opportu 
nity  in  sight,  we  talked  and  thought  of  nothing 
else. 

According  to  the  rules  governing  team  play 
in  our  Association,  each  club  is  represented  by 
five  men,  contesting  from  scratch  and  without 

[64] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


handicaps  of  any  sort.  In  the  past,  two  teams 
have  outclassed  the  field,  and  once  more  history 
repeated  itself,  for  the  Bellevue  bunch  fought 
us  neck  and  neck  through  the  entire  period  of 
competition.  With  one  match  remaining  to  be 
played,  they  were  tied  with  us  for  first  place, 
and  that  match  brought  the  Bellevue  team  to 
our  course  last  Friday  afternoon. 

I  was  on  hand  when  the  visitors  filed  into 
the  locker  room  at  noon — MacNeath,  Smathers, 
Crane,  Lounsberry  and  Jordan — five  seasoned 
and  dependable  golfers,  veterans  of  many  a  hard 
match ;  fighters  who  never  know  when  they  are 
beaten.  They  looked  extremely  fit,  and  not  in 
the  least  worried  at  the  prospect  of  meeting  our 
men  on  their  own  course. 

They  brought  their  own  gallery,  too,  Bellevue 
members  who  talked  even  money  and  flashed 
yellow-backed  bills.  The  Dingbats  formed  a 
syndicate  and  covered  all  bets ;  but  this  was  due 
to  club  pride  rather  than  any  feeling  of  con 
fidence.  We  knew  our  boys  were  in  for  a  tough 
battle,  in  which  neither  side  would  have  a 
marked  advantage. 

Four  of  our  team  players  were  on  hand  to 
welcome  the  enemy — Moreman,  Bishop,  Elder 
and  Gilmore — and  they  offered  their  opponents 
such  hospitality  as  is  customary  on  like  occa 
sions. 

"Thanks,"  said  MacNeath  with  a  grin;  "but 
just  now  we  're  drinking  water.  After  the  match 
you  can  fill  the  cup  with  anything  you  like,  and 

[65] 


FORE! 

we'll  allow  you  one  drink  out  of  it  before  we 
take  it  home  with  us.  Once  we  get  it  over  there 
it'll  never  come  back.  It's  not  in  the  cards  for 
you  to  win  three  times  running.  .  .  .  Where's 
Anderson?" 

"He  hasn't  shown  up  yet,"  said  Bishop. 

"He's  on  the  way  out  in  his  car,"  added 
Moreman.  "I  rang  up  his  house  five  minutes 
ago.  He'd  just  left." 

' '  Oh,  very  well, ' '  said  MacNeath,  who  is  Num 
ber  One  man  for  Bellevue,  as  well  as  captain  of 
the  team.  "Suppose  we  have  lunch  now, 
Bishop ;  and  while  we  're  eating  you  can  give  me 
the  list  of  your  players  and  I'll  match  them 
up." 

In  team  play  it  is  customary  for  the  home 
captain  to  submit  the  names  of  his  players, 
ranked  from  one  to  five,  in  the  order  of  their 
ability.  The  visiting  captain  then  has  the  privi 
lege  of  making  the  individual  matches ;  and  this 
is  supposed  to  offset  whatever  advantage  the 
home  team  has  by  reason  of  playing  on  its  own 
course. 

Bishop,  our  captain,  handed  over  a  list  read 
ing  as  follows :  1 — Anderson ;  2 — Moreman ;  3 — • 
Bishop;  4 — Elder;  5 — Gilmore.  MacNeath 
bracketed  his  own  name  with  Anderson's,  and 
paired  Crane  with  Moreman,  Lounsberry  with 
Bishop,  Smathers  with  Elder,  and  Jordan  with 
Gilmore. 

After  luncheon  the  men  changed  to  their  golf 
ing  togs ;  but  still  there  was  no  sign  of  Ander- 

[66] 


LITTLE    POISOX    IVY 


son.  Another  telephone  call  confirmed  the  first 
message ;  his  wife  reported  that  he  had  left  his 
home  nearly  an  hour  before,  bound  for  the  club, 

"Queer!"  said  MacNeath.  " Engine  trouble 
or  a  puncture — possibly  both.  It's  not  like  the 
Swede  to  be  late.  Might  as  well  get  started, 
eh?  Anderson  and  I  will  go  last,  anyhow." 

A  big  gallery  watched  the  first  pair  drive  off, 
Gilmore  getting  a  better  ball  than  Jordan,  and 
cheering  those  who  believe  in  omens.  Then  at 
five-minute  intervals,  came  Lounsberry  and 
Bishop,  Smathers  and  Elder,  and  Crane  and 
Moreman.  Each  match  attracted  a  small  indi 
vidual  gallery,  but  most  of  the  spectators  waited 
to  follow  the  Number  One  men.  MacNeath,  re 
fusing  to  allow  himself  to  be  made  nervous  by 
the  delay,  went  into  the  clubhouse;  and  many 
and  wild  were  the  speculations  as  to  the  cause 
of  Anderson's  tardiness.  The  wildest  one  of 
them  fell  short  of  the  bitter  truth,  which  came 
to  us  at  the  end  of  a  telephone  wire  located  in 
the  professional's  shop.  It  had  been  relayed 
on  from  the  switchboard  in  the  club  office : 

"Anderson  blew  a  front  tire  at  the  city  lim 
its.  Car  turned  over  with  him  and  broke  his 
leg." 

A  bombshell  exploding  under  our  noses  could 
not  have  created  more  consternation.  There  we 
were,  with  four  of  the  matches  under  way,  our 
best  man  crippled,  and  up  against  the  proposi 
tion  of  providing  an  opponent  for  MacNeath, 
admittedly  the  most  dangerous  player  on  the 

[67] 


FORE! 

Bellevue  team.  Harson,  as  a  member  of  the 
Greens  Committee  and  an  officer  of  the  club, 
assumed  charge  of  the  situation  as  soon  as  he 
heard  the  news. 

"No  good  sending  word  to  poor  old  Bishop," 
said  he.  ' ;  He 's  the  team  captain,  of  course ;  but 
he  can't  do  anything  about  it.  Besides,  he's 
already  playing  his  match,  and  this  would  upset 
him  terribly.  Is  there  any  one  here  who  can 
give  MacNeath  a  run  for  his  money?" 

"Not  unless  you  want  to  try  it,"  said  I. 

* '  He  'd  eat  me  alive ! ' '  groaned  Harson.  * '  We 
might  as  well  forfeit  one  match,  and  put  it  up 
to  the  boys  to  win  three  out  of  four.  Oh,  if 
we  only  had  one  more  good  man!" 

"Ye  have,"  said  MacQuarrie,  who  had  been 
listening.  "Ye've  overlooked  young  Mister 
Phipps." 

"That  kid?"  demanded  Harson.  "Non 
sense!" 

"Ay,"  said  Dunn'l;  "that  kid!  Call  it  non 
sense  if  ye  like,  sir,  but  he  was  under  eighty 
twice  yesterday.  This  mor-rnin'  he  shot  a  sev 
enty-seven,  with  two  missed  putts  the  length  o* 
your  ar-rm.  He's  on  top  of  his  game  now,  an* 
goin'  strong.  If  he'll  shoot  back  to  his  mor- 
rnin'  round  he'll  give  Mister  MacNeath  a  bat 
tle  ;  bnt  the  lad  has  never  been  in  a  competition, 
so  ye '11  have  to  chance  his  ner-rves." 

"Ambrose!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  never  should 
iave  thought  of  him ! ' ' 

"Of  course  ye  wouldn't,"  said  MacQuarrie. 
[68] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


"  YeVe  never  played  with  him — never  even  seen 
him  play." 

* '  But  he 's  such  a  little  rotter ! ' '  mumbled  Har- 
son. 

"Ay,"  said  Dunn'l;  "an',  grantin'  ye  that, 
he's  still  the  best  ye  have.  He's  in  the  club 
house  now,  dressed  an'  ready  to  start,  once  the 
crowd  is  out  of  the  way." 

"And  he  really  did  a  seventy-seven  this  morn 
ing?"  asked  Harson. 

"With  two  missed  putts — wee  ones." 

I  looked  at  Harson  and  Harson  looked  at  me. 

'  *  You  go  in  and  put  it  up  to  him, ' '  said  he  at 
last.  "I  can't  talk  to  him  without  losing  my 
temper." 

I  found  our  little  red  hope  banging  the  balls 
about  on  the  billiard  table,  carefree  as  a  scarlet 
tanager. 

"Young  man,"  said  I,  "your  country  calls 
you." 

"I'm  under  age,"  said  Ambrose,  calmly 
squinting  along  his  cue.  "Don't  bother  me. 
This  is  a  tough  shot." 

"Well,  then,"  said  I,  "your  club  calls  you." 

"My  club,  eh?"  remarked  the  redhead  with 
nasty  emphasis.  "Any  time  this  club  calls  me 
I'm  stone-deaf." 

"Listen  to  me  a  minute,  Phipps.  This  is  the 
day  of  the  big  team  match  and  we're  up  against 
it  hard.  Anderson  turned  his  car  over  on  the 
way  out  and  broke  his  leg.  We  want  you  to  take 
his  place." 

[69] 


FOEE  ! 


"Anderson,"  repeated  Ambrose.  "Ain't  that 
the  squarehead  who  calls  me  Little  Poison  Ivy? 
Only  his  leg,  eh  ?  Tough  luck ! ' ' 

"You  bet  it  is!"  I  exclaimed,  ignoring  his 
meaning.  "Tough  luck  for  all  of  us,  because 
if  we  can't  dig  up  a  man  to  take  Anderson's 
place  we  '11  have  to  forfeit  that  particular  match 
to  MacNeath.  We'd  set  our  hearts  on  winning 
this  time,  because  it  would  give  us  the  per 
manent  possession  of  the  team  trophy  that  we  Ve 
been  shooting  at  for  twenty  years " 

"Let  your  voice  fall  right  there ! ' '  commanded 
Ambrose.  ' '  Trophies  are  nothing  in  my  young 
life.  This  club  is  nothing  in  my  life.  Every 
body  here  has  treated  me  worse  than  a  yellow 
dog.  Go  ahead  and  take  your  medicine ;  and  I 
hope  they  lick  you  and  make  you  like  it ! " 

I  saw  it  was  time  to  try  another  tack.  Am 
brose  had  used  one  word  that  had  put  an  idea 
into  my  head. 

' '  All  right, ' '  said  I.  ' l  Have  it  your  own  way. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  mistake  to  mention  Mac 
Neath 's  name." 

"What  do  you  mean — a  mistake?"  He  fired 
up  instantly. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "you  must  know  Mac  by 
reputation.  He's  one  of  the  best  golfers  in  the 
state  and  a  tough  proposition  to  beat.  He's 
their  Number  One  man — their  star  player.  He 
shoots  pretty  close  to  par  all  the  time." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  asked  Am 
brose. 

[70] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


"Why,  nothing;  only " 

" Only  what?" 

''Well,  they  all  said  you  wouldn't  want  to  go 
up  against  such  a  strong  player. " 

"Who  said  that!" 

"Oh,  everybody.  Yes;  it  was  a  mistake  to 
mention  his  name.  I'm  frank  enough  to  say 
that  I  wouldn't  tackle  him  without  a  handicap. 
MacNeath  is  hard  game. ' ' 

'  *  Look  here ! ' '  snapped  the  redhead.  '  *  You  're 
off  on  the  wrong  foot  entirely.  You're  barking 
up  the  wrong  tree.  It's  not  because  I'm  afraid 
of  this  MacNeath,  or  anybody  else.  I  licked  that 
sour  old  Scotchman  this  morning,  and  I  guess 
you'll  agree  he's  not  soft  picking.  It's  just  that 
I  don't  feel  that  this  club  ought  to  ask  a  favour 
of  me." 

"A  favour!  Why,  man  alive,  it's  a  compli 
ment  to  stick  you  in  at  Number  One — the  big 
gest  compliment  we  can  pay  you!" 

"Well,"  said  Ambrose  slowly,  "if  you  look 
at  it  in  that  light " 

"I  most  certainly  do.  ...  But  if  you'd  rather 


Ambrose  dropped  his  cue  with  a  crash. 

"You  don't  really  think  I'm  yellow,  do  you!" 
he  cried. 

"If  you  are,"  said  I,  "you're  the  first  red 
head  that  ever  got  his  colour  scheme  mixed." 

The  little  rascal  grinned  like  a  gargoyle. 

"Listen!"  said  he  confidentially.  "You've 
used  me  pretty  well — to  my  face,  anyhow — and 

[71] 


FOEE ! 

I'll  tell  you  this  much:  I  don't  care  the  snap  of 
my  fingers  for  your  ratty  old  cup.  I  care  even 
less  for  the  members  of  this  club — present  com 
pany  excepted,  you  understand;  but  I  can't 
stand  it  to  have  anybody  think  I'm  not  game. 
Ever  since  I  was  a  runt  of  a  kid  I've  had  to 
fight,  and  they  can  say  anything  about  rne  except 
that  I'm  a  quitter.  .  .  .  Why,  I've  stuck  round 
here  for  nearly  five  months  just  because  I 
wouldn't  let  a  lot  of  old  fossils  drive  me  out  and 
make  me  quit — five  months  without  a  friend  in 
the  place,  and  only  MacQuarrie  to  talk  to. 

"  If  I  'd  been  yellow  it  would  have  shown  that 
first  Saturday  when  everybody  turned  me  down 
so  cold.  I  wanted  to  walk  out  and  never  come 
back.  I  wanted  to ;  but  I  stuck.  Honest,  if  I'm 
anything  at  all  I'm  game — game  enough  to  stand 
the  gaff  and  take  the  worst  of  it;  and  I'll  prove 
it  to  you  by  playing  this  bird,  no  matter  how 
good  he  is.  I'll  fight  him  every  jump  of  the 
way,  and  if  he  licks  me  he'll  have  to  step  out 
some  to  do  it.  What's  a  licking,  anyway?  I've 
had  a  thousand  of  'em!  Plenty  of  people  can 
lick  me ;  but  you  bet  your  life  nobody  ever  scared 
me!" 

* '  Good  kid ! ' '  said  I,  and  held  out  my  hand. 

After  an  instant's  hesitation  Ambrose  seized 
it.  "Now  lead  me  to  this  MacNeath  person," 
said  he.  "I  suppose  we  ought  to  be  introduced, 
eh?  Or  has  he  been  told  that  I'm  the  Country 
Club  leper?" 

[72] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


It  was  a  sorely  disappointed  gallery  that  wel 
comed  the  substitute — disappointed  and 
amazed;  but  the  few  Bellevue  members  were 
openly  jubilant.  They  had  reason  to  be,  for 
word  had  been  brought  back  to  them  that  Louns- 
berry  and  Crane  were  running  away  with  their 
matches.  Between  them  and  the  cup  they  saw 
only  a  golfing  novice,  a  junior  member  without 
a  war  record.  They  immediately  began  offering 
odds  of  two  to  one  on  the  MacNeath-Phipps 
match ;  but  there  were  no  takers.  The  Dingbats 
held  a  lodge  of  sorrow  in  the  shade  of  the  caddie 
house  and  mournfully  estimated  their  losses, 
while  our  feminine  contingent  showed  signs  of 
retreating  to  the  porch  and  spending  the  after 
noon  at  bridge. 

MacNeath  was  first  on  the  tee — a  tall,  flat- 
muscled,  athletic  man  of  forty ;  and,  as  the  vet 
eran  was  preparing  to  drive,  Ambrose  and  Mac- 
Quarrie  held  a  whispered  conversation. 

"I'd  like  to  grab  some  of  that  two  to  one," 
said  the  boy. 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  counselled  the  canny  Scot. 
"Ye '11  have  enough  on  your  mind  wi'out  makin' 
bets;  an'  for  pity's  sake,  remember  what  I've 
told  ye — slow  back,  don't  press,  keep  your  head 
down,  an'  count  throe  before  ye  look  up.  Hit 
them  like  ye  did  this  mor-rnin'  an'  ye've  a 
grand  chance  to  win." 

MacNeath  sent  his  usual  tee  shot  straight 
down  the  course,  a  long,  well-placed  ball;,  and 

L73] 


FOEE! 

Ambrose  stepped  forward  in  the  midst  of  a  sil 
ence  that  was  almost  painful. 

"Mighty  pretty,"  said  he  with  a  careless  nod 
at  his  opponent.  "Hope  I  do  as  well." 

"Ye  can,"  muttered  old  Dunn'l,  "if  ye '11  keep 
your  fool  mouth  shut  an'  your  eye  on  the  ball!" 

As  Ambrose  stooped  to  arrange  his  tee  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  gallery — a  long,  triple 
row  of  spectators,  keenly  interested  in  his  next 
move — expectant,  anxious,  apprehensive.  Some 
thing  of  the  mental  attitude  of  the  audience 
communicated  itself  to  the  youngster,  and  he 
paused  for  an  instant,  crouched  on  one  knee. 
When  he  rose  all  the  nonchalant  ease  was  gone 
from  his  manner,  all  the  cocksureness  out  of  his 
eyes.  He  looked  again  at  MacNeath's  ball,  a 
white  speck  far  down  the  fairway.  MacQuarrie 
groaned  and  shook  his  head. 

' '  Never  mind  that  one ! "  he  whispered  to  him 
self  savagely.  "Play  the  one  on  the  tee!" 

Ambrose  fidgeted  as  he  took  his  stance, 
shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
and  his  first  practise  swing  was  short  and  jerky. 
He  seemed  to  realise  this,  for  he  tried  again 
before  he  stepped  forward  to  the  ball.  It  was 
no  use;  the  result  was  the  same.  He  had  sud 
denly  stiffened  in  every  muscle  and  joint — gone 
tense  with  the  nervous  strain.  He  did  manage 
to  remember  about  the  back  swing — it  was  slow 
enough  to  suit  anybody;  but  at  the  top  of  it  he 
faltered,  hesitating  just  long  enough  to  destroy 
the  rhythm  that  produces  a  perfect  shot.  He 

[741 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


realised  this,  too,  and  tried  to  make  up  for  it 
by  lunging  desperately  at  the  ball;  but  as  the 
club-face  went  through  he  jerked  up  his  head 
and  turned  it  sharply  to  the  left.  The  in 
evitable  penalty  for  this  triple  error  was  a 
wretchedly  topped  ball,  which  skipped  along  the 
ground  until  it  reached  the  bunker. 

"Well,  by  the  sweet  and  suffering " 

This  was  as  far  as  Ambrose  got  before  he 
remembered  that  he  had  a  gallery.  He  scuttled 
off  the  tee,  very  much  abashed;  and  MacNeath 
followed,  covering  the  ground  with  long,  even 
strides.  There  was  just  the  thin  edge  of  a  smile 
on  the  veteran's  lean,  bronzed  face. 

Moved  by  a  common  impulse,  the  spectators 
turned  their  backs  and  began  to  drift  across  the 
lawn  to  the  Number  Ten  tee.  They  had  seen 
quite  enough.  Old  Doc  Pinkinson  voiced  the 
general  sentiment: 

' '  No  use  following  a  bad  match  when  you  can 
see  a  good  one,  folks.  Gilmore  and  Jordan  are 
just  driving  off  at  Ten.  I  knew  that  redhead 
was  a  fizzer — a  false  alarm." 

"Can't  understand  why  they  let  him  play  at 
all!"  scolded  Daddy  Bradshaw.  "Might  just 
as  well  put  me  in  there  against  MacNeath! 
Fools!" 

MacQuarrie  obstinately  refused  to  quit  his 
pupil. 

"He  boggled  his  swing,"  growled  Dunn'l; 
"he  fair  jumped  at  the  ball,  an'  he  looked  up 

[75] 


FORE  ! 

before  he  hit  it.  He'll  do  better  wi'out  a  gal 
lery.  Come  along,  sir!" 

I  followed  as  far  as  the  first  bunker.  Though 
his  ball  was  half  buried  in  the  sand,  Ambrose 
attempted  to  skim  it  over  the  wall  with  a 
mashie,  an  idiotic  thing  to  do,  and  an  all  but  im 
possible  shot.  He  got  exactly  what  his  lunacy 
deserved — a  much  worse  lie  than  before,  close 
against  the  bank — and  this  exhibition  of  poor 
judgment  cost  him  half  his  audience. 

1  '"What,  not  going  already?"  asked  Ambrose 
after  he  had  played  four  and  picked  up  his  ball. 
"Stick  round  a  while.  This  is  going  to  be 
good." 

I  said  I  wanted  to  see  how  the  other  matches 
were  coming  on. 

"Everybody  seems  to  feel  the  same  way," 
said  the  redhead,  looking  at  the  retreating  gal 
lery.  "All  because  I  slopped  that  drive!  I'll 
have  that  audience  back  again — see  if  I  don't! 
And  I'll  bet  you  I  won't  look  up  on  another  shot 
all  day!" 

"  If  ye  do, ' '  grumbled  MacQuarrie,  "  I  '11  never 
play  wi'  ye  again  as  long  as  ye  live!" 

"That's  a  promise!"  cried  Ambrose.  "One 
down,  eh?  Where  do  we  go  from  here?" 

IV 

Our  team  veterans  did  not  lack  sympathetic 
encouragement  on  the  last  nine  holes,  and  all 
four  matches  tightened  up  to  such  an  extent 

[76] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


that  we  wavered  between  hope  and  fear  until 
Crane's  final  putt  on  the  seventeenth  green 
dropped  us  into  the  depths  of  despair. 

Gilmore,  setting  the  pace  with  Jordan,  gave 
us  early  encouragement  by  maintaining  a  safe 
lead  throughout  and  winning  his  match,  3  to  2. 
First  blood  was  ours,  but  the  period  of  rejoic 
ing  was  a  short  one;  for  the  deliberate  Louns- 
berry,  approaching  and  putting  with  heart 
breaking  accuracy,  disposed  of  Bishop  on  the 
seventeenth  green. 

"One  apiece,"  said  Doc-  PinMnson.  "Now 
what's  Elder  doing?" 

The  Elder-Smathers  match  came  to  Number 
Seventeen  all  square;  but  our  man  ended  the 
suspense  by  dropping  a  beautiful  mashie  pitch 
dead  to  the  pin  from  a  distance  of  one  hundred 
yards.  Smathers'  third  shot  also  reached  the 
green;  but  his  long  putt  wTent  wide  and  Elder 
tapped  the  ball  into  the  cup,  adding  a  second 
victory  to  our  credit. 

"It's  looking  better  every  minute!"  chirped 
the  irrepressible  Doc  Pinkinson.  "Now  if  More- 
man  can  lick  his  man  wre  're  all  hunky-dory.  If 
he  loses — good-a-by,  cup!  No  use  figuring  on 
that  red-headed  snipe  of  a  kid.  MacNeath  has 
sent  him  to  the  cleaner's  by  now,  sure!" 

The  gallery  waited  at  the  seventeenth  green, 
watching  in  anxious  silence  as  Crane  and  More- 
man  played  their  pitch  shots  over  the  guarding 
bunker.  Both  wrere  well  on  in  threes;  but  the 
Bellevue  caddie  impudently  held  his  forefinger 

[77] 


FORE! 

in  the  air  as  a  sign  that  his  man  was  one  up. 
Moreman  made  a  good  try,  but  his  fourth  shot 
stopped  a  few  inches  from  the  cup ;  and  Crane, 
after  studying  the  roll  of  the  green  for  a  full 
minute,  dropped  a  forty-foot  putt  for  a  four — 
and  dropped  our  spirits  with  it. 

"That  settles  it!"  wheezed  Daddy  Bradshaw. 
"No  need  to  bother  about  that  other  match. 
.  .  .  Oh,  if  Anderson  was  so  set  on  breaking 
his  leg,  why  didn't  he  wait  till  to-morrow?" 

"Then  he  could  have  busted  'em  both,"  re 
marked  the  unfeeling  Pinkinson,  "and  nobody 
would  have  said  a  word.  Might 's  well  pay  those 
bets,  I  reckon.  We  got  as  much  chance  as  that 
snowball  they're  always  talking  about.  If  it 
didn't  melt,  somebody  would  eat  it." 

He  turned  and  looked  back  along  the  course. 
Two  figures  appeared  on  the  skyline,  proceed 
ing  in  the  direction  of  the  sixteenth  tee.  The 
first  one  was  tall,  and  moved  with  long,  even 
strides;  the  second  was  short,  and  even  at  the 
distance  it  seemed  to  strut  and  swagger. 

"Hello!"  ejaculated  Pinkinson.  "Ain't  that 
MacNeath  and  the  kid,  going  to  Sixteen?  It  is, 
by  golly !  D'you  reckon  they're  playing  out  the 
bye  holes  just  for  fun — or  what  I ' ' 

"It  can't  be  anything  else,"  said  Bradshaw. 
"The  boy  couldn't  have  carried  him  that  far." 

Somebody  plucked  at  my  sleeve.  It  was  a 
small  dirty-faced  caddie,  very  much  out  of 
breath. 

"Mister  Phipps  says — if  you  want  to  see — . 
[78] 


LITTLE    POISOX    IVY 


some  reg'lar  golf — you'd  better  catch  the  finish 
— of  his  match.  He  says — bring  all  the  gang 
with  you. ' ' 

"The  finish  of  his  match!"  I  cried.  "Isn't 
it  over  ?  You  don't  mean  that  they're  still  play 
ing?" 

"Still  playin'  is  right!"  panted  the  caddie. 
"They  was  all  square — when  I  left  'em." 

All  square !  Like  a  flash  the  news  ran  through 
the  gallery.  The  various  groups,  already  drift 
ing  disconsolately  in  the  direction  of  the  club 
house,  halted  and  began  buzzing  with  excite 
ment  and  incredulity.  All  square?  Nonsense! 
It  couldn't  be  true.  A  green  kid  like  that  hold 
ing  MacNeath  to  an  even  game  for  fifteen  holes  ? 
Rot !  But,  in  spite  of  the  doubts  so  openly  ex 
pressed,  there  was  a  brisk  and  general  move 
ment  backward  along  the  course,  with  the  six 
teenth  putting  green  as  an  objective  point. 

It  was  a  much  augmented  gallery  that  lined 
the  side  hill  above  the  contestants.  All  the  other 
team  members  were  there,  our  men  surprised 
and  skeptical,  and  the  Bellevue  players  nervous 
and  apprehensive.  There  was  also  a  troop  of 
idle  caddies,  who  had  received  the  word  by  some 
mysterious  wireless  of  their  own  devising. 

"MacNeath  is  down  in  four,"  whispered  one 
of  the  youngsters;  "and  Beddy  has  got  to  sink 
this  one." 

Ambrose's  ball  was  four  feet  from  the  cup. 
He  walked  up  to  it,  took  one  look  at  the  line, 
one  at  the  hole,  and  made  the  shot  without  an 

[79] 


FORE! 

instant's  hesitation — a  clean,  firm  tap  that  gave 
the  ball  no  chance  to  waver,  but  sent  it  squarely 
into  the  middle  of  the  cup.  MacQuarrie  him 
self  could  not  have  shown  more  confidence.  Mac-. 
Neath's  caddie  replaced  the  flag  in  the  hole, 
dropped  both  hands  to  his  hips,  and  moved  them 
back  and  forth  in  a  level,  sweeping  gesture. 
His  sign  language  answered  the  question  upper 
most  in  every  mind.  Still  all  square !  A  patter 
of  applause  gave  thanks  for  the  information  and 
Ambrose  looked  up  at  us  with  a  quizzical  grin. 
I  caught  his  eye,  and  the  rascal  winked  at  me. 

He  was  first  on  the  seventeenth  tee,  and  this 
time  there  was  no  sign  of  nervous  tension. 
After  a  single  powerful  practise  swing  he 
stepped  forward  to  his  ball,  pressed  the  sole  of 
his  club  lightly  behind  it,  and  got  off  a  tremen 
dous  tee  shot.  I  noticed  that  his  lips  moved; 
and  he  did  not  raise  his  head  until  the  ball 
was  well  down  the  course. 

"He's  countin'  three  before  he  looks  up!" 
whispered  a  voice  in  my  ear;  and  there  was 
MacQuarrie,  the  butt  of  a  dead  cigar  between 
his  teeth,  and  his  eyes  alive  with  all  the  emotions 
a  Scot  may  feel  but  can  never  express  in  words. 

"Then  he's  really  been  playing  good  golf?" 
I  asked. 

"Ay.  Grand  golf!  They  both  have.  It's 
a  dingdong  match,  an'  just  a  question  which  one 
will  crack  fir-rst. ' ' 

MacNeath's  drive  held  out  no  hope  that  he 
was  about  to  crack  under  the  strain  of  an  even 

[80] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


battle.  He  executed  the  tee  shot  with  the  ma- 
chinelike  precision  of  the  veteran  golfer — 
stance,  swing  and  follow-through  standardised 
by  years  of  experience. 

Our  seventeenth  hole  is  a  long  one,  par  5,  and 
the  approach  to  the  putting  green  is  guarded 
by  an  embankment,  paralleled  on  the  far 
side  by  a  wide  and  treacherous  sand  trap,  put 
there  to  encourage  clean  mashie  pitches.  The 
average  player  cannot  reach  the  bunker  on  his 
second,  much  less  carry  the  sand  trap  on  the 
other  side  of  it ;  but  the  long  drivers  sometimes 
string  two  tremendous  wooden-club  shots  to 
gether  and  reach  the  edge  of  the  green.  More 
frequently  they  get  into  trouble  and  pay  the 
penalty  for  attempting  too  much. 

The  two  balls  were  close  together;  but  Am 
brose's  shot  was  the  longer  one  by  a  matter 
of  feet,  and  it  was  up  to  MacNeath  to  play 
first.  Would  he  gamble  and  go  for  the  green, 
or  would  he  play  short  and  make  sure  of  a 
five?  The  veteran  estimated  the  distance, 
looked  carefully  at  his  lie,  and  then  pulled  an 
iron  from  his  bag.  Instantly  I  knew  what  was 
passing  in  his  mind — sensed  his  golfing  strat 
egy:  MacNeath  intended  to  place  his  second 
shot  short  of  the  bunker,  in  the  hope  that  Am 
brose  would  be  tempted  into  risking  the  long, 
dangerous  wooden-club  shot  across  to  the  green. 

"Aha!"  whispered  MacQuarrie.  "The  old 
fox!  He'll  not  take  a  chance  himself,  but  he 
wants  the  lad  to  take  one.  '  ' '  Will  ye  walk  into 

[81] 


FOBE! 

my  parlour  f ' '  says  the  spider  to  the  fly. '  Ay  ; 
that's  just  it — will  he,  now?" 

Ambrose  gave  us  no  time  for  suspense.  Mac- 
Neath's  ball  had  hardly  stopped  rolling  before 
his  decision  was  made — and  a  sound  one  at  that ! 
He  whipped  his  mid-iron  from  the-bag. 

"  'Fraid  I'll  have  to  fool  you,  old  chap,"  said 
he  airily.  l '  You  wanted  me  to  go  for  the  green 
—eh,  what?  Well,  I  hate  to  disappoint  you ;  but 
I  can't  gamble  in  an  even  game — not  when  the 
kitty  is  a  sand  trap.  .  .  .  Eide,  you  little  round 
rascal;  ride!" 

The  last  remark  was  addressed  to  the  ball 
just  before  the  blade  of  the  mid-iron  flicked  it 
from  the  grass.  Again  there  were  two  white 
specks  in  the  distance,  lying  side  by  side.  If 
MacNeath  was  disappointed  he  did  not  show  it, 
but  tramped  on  down  the  course,  silent  as  usual 
and  absorbed  in  the  game.  Both  took  fives  on 
the  hole,  missing  long  putts ;  and  the  battle  was 
still  all  square. 

Our  home  hole  is  a  par  4 — a  blind  drive  and 
an  iron  pitch  to  the  green ;  and  the  vital  shot  is 
the  one  from  the  tee.  It  must  go  absolutely 
straight  and  high  enough  to  carry  the  top  of 
the  hill,  one  hundred  and  forty  yards  away.  To 
the  right  is  an  abrupt  downward  slope,  ending 
in  a  deep  ravine.  To  the  left,  and  out  of  sight 
from  the  tee,  is  a  wide  sand  trap,  with  the  father 
of  all  bunkers  at  its  far  edge.  The  only  safe 
ball  is  the  one  that  sails  over  the  direction  post. 

Ambrose  drove;  and  a  smothered  gasp  went 
[82] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


up  from  the  gallery.  The  ball  had  the  speed  of 
a  bullet,  as  well  as  a  perfect  line ;  and,  at  first, 
I  thought  it  would  rise  enough  to  skim  the  crest 
of  the  hill.  Instead  of  that,  it  seemed  to  duck 
in  flight,  caught  the  hard  face  of  the  incline, 
and  kicked  abruptly  to  the  left.  It  was  that 
crooked  bound  which  broke  all  our  hearts;  for 
we  knew  that,  barring  a  miracle,  our  man  was 
in  the  sand  trap. 

"Hard  luck!"  said  MacNeath;  and  I  think 
he  really  meant  to  be  sympathetic. 

Ambrose  looked  at  him  as  a  bulldog  might 
look  at  a  mastiff. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that!"  he  answered, 
rather  stiffly.  "I  like  to  play  my  second  shot 
from  over  there." 

"You're  welcome!"  said  MacNeath;  and  com 
pleted  our  discomfiture  by  poling  out  a  tre 
mendous  shot,  which  carried  well  over  the  direc 
tion  post  and  went  sailing  on  up  the  plateau 
toward  the  clubhouse. 

No  man  ever  hit  a  longer  ball  at  a  more 
opportune  time.  As  we  toiled  up  the  hill  I 
tried  to  say  something  hopeful. 

"He  may  have  stopped  short  of  the  trap." 

' '  Not  a  hope ! ' '  said  MacQuarrie,  chewing  at 
his  cigar.  "He'll  be  in — up  to  his  neck." 

Sure  enough,  when  we  reached  the  summit 
there  was  the  caddie,  a  mournful  statue  on  the 
edge  of  the  sand  trap.  The  crowd  halted  at 
a  proper  distance  and  Ambrose  and  MacNeath 
went  forward  alone.  MacQuarrie  and  I  swung 

[83] 


FORE! 

off  to  the  left,  for  we  wanted  to  see  how  deep 
the  ball  was  in  and  what  sort  of  a  lie  it  had 
found. 

' '  Six  feet  in  from  the  edge, ' '  muttered  Dunn  '1, 
"an'  twenty  feet  away  from  the  wall.  Lyin' 
up  on  top  of  the  sand  too.  An  iron  wi'  a  little 
loft  to  it,  a  clean  shot,  a  good  thir-rd,  an'  he 
might  get  a  four  yet.  It's  just  possible." 

'  *  But  not  probable, ' '  said  I.  *  *  What  on  earth 
is  he  waiting  for  1 ' ' 

Ambrose  had  taken  a  seat  on  the  edge  of  the 
trap;  and  as  he  looked  from  the  ball  to  the 
bunker  looming  in  front  of  it,  he  rolled  a  ciga 
rette. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  study  this  situation  a 
bit!"  said  he  to  MacNeath. 

"Take  your  time,"  said  the  veteran. 

"Because  I  wouldn't  want  to  use  the  wrong 
club  here,"  continued  Ambrose. 

The  caddie  said  something  to  him  at  this 
point;  but  Phipps  shook  his  red  head  impa 
tiently  and  continued  to  puff  at  his  cigarette. 
He  caught  a  glimpse  of  me  and  beckoned. 

"How  do  the  home  boys  stand  on  this  cup 
thing?"  he  asked. 

"All  even — two  matches  to  two." 

"That,"  said  Ambrose  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  "seems  to  put  it  up  to  me." 

At  last  he  rose,  tossed  away  the  cigarette 
end  and,  reaching  for  his  bag,  drew  out  a  wooden 
club.  Again  the  caddie  said  something;  but 
Ambrose  waved  him  away.  There  was  not  a 

[84] 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


sound  from  his  audience,  but  a  hundred  heads 
wagged  dolefully  in  unison.  A  wooden  club — 
out  of  a  trap?  Suicide!  Sheer  suicide!  An 
iron  might  give  him  a  fighting  chance  to  halve 
the  hole ;  but  my  last  lingering  hope  died  when 
I  saw  that  club  in  the  boy 's  hand.  The  infernal 
young  lunatic!  I  believe  I  said  something  of 
the  sort  to  MacQuarrie. 

"Sh-h!"  he  whispered.    "Ton's  a  baffy.    I 
made  it  for  him." 

" What's  a  baffy?" 

^  "Well,  it's  just  a  kind  of  an  exaggerated 
bulldog  spoon — ye  might  almost  call  it  a  wooden 
mashie,  wi'  a  curvin'  sole  on  it.  It's  great  for 
distance.  The  lie  is  good,  the  wind's  behind 

him,  an'  if  he  can  only  hit  it  clean — clean! 

Oh,  ye  little  red  devil,  keep  your  head  down — 
keep  your  head  down  an'  hit  it  clean!" 
I  I  shall  never  forget  the  picture  spread  out 
along  the  edge  of  that  green  plateau — the  red 
headed  stocky  youngster  in  the  sand  trap  taking 
his  stance  and  whipping  the  clubhead  back  and 
forth;  MacNeath  coolly  leaning  on  his  driver 
and  smiling  over  a  match  already  won ;  the  two 
caddies  in  the  background,  one  sneeringly  tri 
umphant,  the  other  furiously  angry;  the  rim  of 
spectators,  motionless,  hopeless. 
I  Everybody  was  watching  Ambrose,  and  I 
think  Old  MacQuarrie  was  the  only  onlooker 
who  was  not  absolutely  certain  that  the  choice 
of  a  wrong  club  was  throwing  away  our  last 
slender  chance. 

[85] 


FORE! 

When  the  tension  was  almost  unbearable  the 
redhead  turned  and  grinned  at  MacNeath. 

"I  suppose  you'd  shoot  this  with  an  iron," 
said  he ;  "but  the  baffy  is  a  great  club — if  you've 
got  the  nerve  to  use  it." 

Ambrose  settled  his  feet  firmly  in  the  sand, 
craned  his  neck  for  a  final  look  at  the  flag,  two 
hundred  yards  away,  dropped  his  chin  on  his 
chest,  waggled  the  clubhead  over  the  ball,  and 
then  swung  with  every  ounce  of  strength  in  his 
sturdy  body.  I  heard  a  sharp  click,  saw  a  tiny 
feather  of  sand  spurt  into  the  air,  and  against 
the  blue  sky  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  soaring 
white  speck,  which  went  higher  and  higher  until 
I  lost  it  altogether.  The  next  thing  I  knew,  the 
spectators  were  cheering,  yelling,  screaming; 
and  some  one  was  hammering  me  violently  be 
tween  the  shoulder  blades.  It  was  the  unemo 
tional  Dunn'l  MacQuarrie,  gone  completely  daft 
with  excitement. 

"Oh,  man!"  he  cried.  "He  picked  it  up  as 
clean  as  a  whistle,  an'  he's  on  the  green — on 
the  green!" 

' '  Told  you  that  was  a  sweet  little  club ! ' '  said 
Ambrose  as  he  climbed  out  of  the  trap.  "Takes 
nerve  to  use  one  though.  On  the  green,  eh? 
Well,  I  guess  that'll  hold  you  for  a  while." 

His  prediction  soon  had  a  solid  backing  of 
fact.  MacNeath,  the  iron  man,  the  dependable 
Number  One,  the  match  player  without  nerves, 
was  not  proof  against  a  miracle.  Ambrose's 

[8GJ 


LITTLE    POISON    IVY 


phenomenal  recovery  had  shaken  the  veteran  to 
the  soles  of  his  shoes. 

MacNeath's  second  shot  was  an  easy  pitch 
to  the  green,  but  he  lingered  too  long  over  it; 
the  blade  of  his  mashie  caught  the  turf  at  least 
three  inches  behind  the  ball  and  shot  it  off  at 
an  angle  into  the  thick,  long  grass  that  guards 
the  eighteenth  green.  He  was  forced  to  use  a 
heavy  niblick  on  his  third;  but  the  ball  rolled 
thirty  feet  beyond  the  pin.  He  tried  hard  for 
the  long  putt,  but  missed,  and  picked  up  when 
Ambrose  laid  his  third  shot  on  the  lip  of  the 
cup. 

By  the  most  fortunate  fluke  ever  seen  on  a 
golf  course  our  little  red  Ishmael  had  won  for 
us  the  permanent  possession  of  the  Edward  B. 
Wimpus  Trophy. 

MacNeath  was  game.  He  picked  up  his  ball 
with  the  left  hand  and  offered  his  right  to  Am 
brose.  " Well  done!"  said  he. 

''Thanks!"  responded  Ambrose.  "Guess  I 
kind  of  jarred  you  with  that  baffy  shot.  It's 
certainly  a  dandy  club  in  a  pinch.  Better  let 
MacQuarrie  make  you  one." 

MacNeath  swallowed  hard  and  nearly  man 
aged  a  smile. 

"It  wasn't  the  club,"  said  he.  "It  was  just 
burglar's  luck.  You  couldn't  do  it  again  in  a 
thousand  years!" 

"Maybe  not,"  replied  the  victor;  "but  when 
you  get  back  to  Bellevue  you  tell  all  the  dear 
chappies  there  that  I  got  away  with  it  once — 

[87] 


FOSE! 

got  away  with  it  the  one  time  when  it  counted ! ' ' 
At  this  point  the  gallery  closed  in  and  over 
whelmed  young  Mr.  Phipps.  Inside  of  a  min 
ute  he  heard  more  pleasant  things  about  him 
self  than  had  come  to  his  ears  in  a  lifetime. 
He  did  not  dispute  a  single  statement  that  was 
made;  nor  did  he  discount  one  by  so  much  as 
the  deprecating  lift  of  an  eyebrow.  For  once 
in  his  life  he  agreed  with  everybody.  In  the 
stag  celebration  that  followed — with  the  Edward 
B.  Wimpus  Cup  in  the  middle  of  the  big  round 
table — he  was  easily  induced  to  favour  us  with 
a  few  brief  remarks.  He  informed  us  that  tin 
cups  were  nothing  in  his  young  life,  club  spirit 
was  nothing,  but  that  gameness  was  everything 
— and  the  cheering  was  led  by  the  Dingbats ! 

Now  you  know  why  we  feel  that  we  owe  Am 
brose  something;  and,  if  I  am  any  judge,  that 
debt  will  be  paid  with  heavy  interest.  Dunn'l 
MacQuarrie  is  also  a  winner.  He  has  booked 
so  many  orders  for  baffles  that  he  is  now  en 
deavouring  to  secure  the  services  of  a  first-class 
club  maker. 

As  Ambrose  often  tells  us,  the  baffy  is  a 
sweet  little  club  to  have  in  the  bag — provided, 
of  course,  you  have  the  nerve  to  use  it. 


[88] 


THE   MAJOR,   D.   0.    S. 


I  DESPISE  the  sort  of  man  who  gloats  and 
pokes  his  finger  at  you  and  reminds  you 
that  he  told  you  so.    I  hope  I  am  not  in  that 
class,  and  I  would  be  the  last  to  rub  salt 
into  an  open  wound ;  still  I  see  no  harm  in  call 
ing  attention  to  the  fact  that  I  once  expressed 
an  opinion  which  had  to  do  with  Englishmen  in 
general  and  Major  Cuthbert  Eustace  Lawes — 
D.  S.  0.,  and  a  lot  of  other  initials — in  particu 
lar.    What  is  more,  that  opinion  was  expressed 
in  the  presence  of  Waddles  Wilmot  and  one 
other  director  of  the  Yavapai  Golf  and  Country 
Club. 

"You  can't  tell  much  about  an  Englishman 
by  looking  at  him." 

Those  were  my  very  words,  and  I  stand  by 
them.  I  point  to  them  with  pride.  If  Waddles 
had  listened  to  me — but  Waddles  never  listens 
to  anybody.  Sometimes  he  looks  as  if  he  might 
be  listening,  when  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  is  only 
resting  his  voice  and  thinking  up  something 
cutting  and  clever  to  say  next. 

[89] 


FORE! 

Speaking  of  Waddles,  the  fault  is  not  all  his. 
We  have  indulged  him  with  too  much  authority. 
We  have  allowed  him  to  become  a  sort  of  auto 
crat,  a  golfing  Pooh-Bah,  a  self-appointed  com 
mittee  of  one  with  arbitrary  powers.  He  began 
looking  after  the  club  when  it  was  in  its  infancy, 
and  now  that  the  organisation  has  grown  to 
quite  respectable  proportions  he  does  not  seem 
to  know  how  to  let  go  gracefully.  He  still  looks 
after  us,  whether  we  want  him  to  or  not,  and  if 
it  is  only  the  getting  out  of  a  new  score  card 
Waddles  must  attend  to  it,  having  the  first  word, 
the  last  word  and  all  the  words  between. 

If  any  one  presumes  to  disagree  with  him 
Waddles  merely  snorts  in  that  disdainful  way 
of  his  and  goes  on  talking  louder  and  louder 
until  finally  the  opposition  succumbs,  blown 
down  by  sheer  lung  power,  as  it  were,  gassed 
before  reaching  the  trenches.  Wind  is  all  right 
in  its  place,  and  in  moderation,  but  a  steady  gale 
gets  on  the  nerves  in  time.  Waddles  is  a  human 
simoom,  carrying  dust,  sand  and  cactus. 

I  say  this  in  all  kindness,  for  I  am  really  fond 
of  the  old  boy.  He  has  many  admirable  quali 
ties,  and  frequently  tells  us  what  they  are,  but 
consideration  for  others  is  not  one  of  them ;  and 
when  he  plays  golf  the  things  he  does  to  an 
opponent  are  sinful.  He  is  just  as  ruthless 
and  overbearing  on  the  links  as  he  is  in  com 
mittee  meeting — but  of  this,  more  anon — much 
more.  I  made  my  remark  about  Englishmen  a 
month  or  so  after  the  Major  became  a  member 

[90] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


of  the  club.  "We  understood  that  Lawes  was  a 
retired  infantry  officer  in  poor  health,  and  when 
he  arrived  in  our  part  of  the  world  he  brought 
with  him  a  Hindu  servant  with  his  head 
wrapped  up  in  about  forty  yards  of  cheesecloth, 
an  unquenchable  thirst,  some  gilt-edged  letters 
of  introduction  from  big  people,  and  a  hobnail 
liver.  He  was  proposed  by  two  of  our  financial 
moguls  and  passed  the  membership  committee 
without  a  whisper  of  dissent. 

"This  old  bird,"  said  Waddles,  "is  probably 
a  cracking  good  golfer.  Nearly  all  Englishmen 
are.  We  can  use  him  to  plug  up  that  weak  spot 
on  the  team. ' '  And  of  course  he  looked  straight 
at  me  when  he  said  it.  Goodness  knows,  I  never 
asked  to  be  put  on  the  club  team,  and  I  play  my 
worst  golf  in  competition. 

Some  of  the  other  men  thought  that  the  Major 
would  lend  a  bit  of  tone  to  the  organisation.  I 
presume  they  got  the  idea  from  the  string  of 
initials  after  his  name. 

As  to  his  golfing,  the  Major  proved  a  disap 
pointment.  He  did  not  seem  in  any  haste  to 
avail  himself  of  the  privileges  of  active  mem 
bership,  and  when  at  the  club  he  spent  all  his 
time  sitting  on  the  porch  and  staring  at  the 
mountains  in  the  distance.  I  don't  remember 
ever  seeing  him  without  a  tall  brandy  highball 
at  his  elbow. 

Personally,  the  Major  wasn't  much  to  look  at. 
You  could  just  as  easily  have  guessed  the  age  of 
a  mummy.  He  was  long-legged  and  cadaverous, 

[91] 


FOEE! 

with  thin,  sandy  hair  and  a  yellowish  moustache 
that  never  seemed  to  be  trimmed.  His  mouth 
was  always  slightly  ajar,  his  front  teeth  were 
unduly  prominent,  and  his  chin  was  short  and 
receded  at  an  acute  angle.  A  side  view  of  the 
Major  suggested  a  tired,  half-starved  old  rabbit 
that  had  lost  all  interest  in  life.  His  eyes  were 
a  faded  light  blue  in  colour  and  blinked  con 
stantly  without  a  vestige  of  human  expression. 
He  was  freckled  like  a  turkey  egg — freckled  all 
over,  but  mostly  on  the  neck  and  the  forearms. 
When  he  spoke,  which  was  seldom,  it  was  in  a 
thin,  hesitating  treble,  reminiscent  of  a  strayed 
sheep,  and  he  had  an  exasperating  habit  of 
leaving  a  sentence  half  finished  and  beginning 
on  another  one.  He  could  sit  for  hours,  staring 
straight  in  front  of  him  and  apparently  seeing 
nothing  at  all.  When  addressed  he  usually 
jumped  half  out  of  his  chair  and  said  something 
like  this: 

"Eh?  Oh!  God-bless-me!  God-bless-me ! 
What  say?" 

Socially  he  was  a  very  mangy-looking  lion, 
but  we  understood  that  he  was  very  well  con 
nected  in  the  old  country  and  not  so  stupid  as 
he  seemed.  He  couldn't  have  been,  and  lived. 
He  was  a  bachelor  of  independent  means;  he 
bought  a  bungalow  on  Medway  Hill  and  a  six- 
cylinder  runabout,  which  the  servant  learned  to 
drive,  after  a  fearsome  fashion.  This  put  the 
Major  out  of  the  winter-visitor  class — which 
was  reassuring — but  as  the  weeks  passed  and 

[92] 


THE    MAJOE,   D.    O.    S. 


he  was  never  seen  with  a  golf  club  in  his  hands 
Waddles  began  to  worry  about  that  weak  spot 
on  the  team. 

Three  of  us  were  watching  Lawes  one  after 
noon  through  a  window  of  the  lounging  room, 
which  commands  a  view  of  the  porch.  The 
Major  was  spread  out  in  a  big  wicker  chair,  and, 
save  for  certain  mechanical  movements  of  the 
right  hand  and  arm,  was  as  motionless  as  a 
turtle  on  a  log.  As  usual,  Waddles  was  doing 
most  of  the  talking. 

"Ain't  he  the  study  in  still  life,  eh?  ... 
With  the  accent  on  the  still— get  me?  Still!  Ho, 
ho !  Not  bad  a  bit.  .  .  .  Gaze  upon  him,  gentle 
men;  the  world's  most  consistent  rum  hound! 
He  hasn't  moved  a  muscle  in  the  last  hour  ex 
cept  to  lift  that  glass.  Wonderful  type  of  the 
athletic  Englishman,  what-oh?  Devoted  to 
sports  and  pastimes,  my  word,  yes!  He 
wouldn't  qualify  for  putting  the  shot,  but  for 
putting  the  highball  I'll  back  him  against  all 
comers. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Jay  Gilman,  who  is 
a  conservative  sort  of  chap  and  knows  Waddles 
well  enough  not  to  believe  everything  he  says. 
"I  don't  know.  The  old  boy  makes  a  drink  last 
a  long  time.  He  doesn't  order  many  in  the 
course  of  an  afternoon.  I've  never  seen  him 
the  least  bit  edged. ' ' 

' '  Fellow  like  that  never  gets  edged, ' '  argued 
Waddles.  "The  skin  stays  just  so  full  all  the 
time.  Can't  get  any  fuller.  Did  you  ever  try 

[93] 


POKE! 

to  talk  with  his  royal  jaglets?  Sociable  as  an 
oyster !  I  tried  to  get  him.  opened  up  the  other 
day.  He 's  been  in  India  and  Africa  and  every 
where  else,  they  tell  me,  and  I  thought  he  might 
want  to  gas  about  his  experiences.  War  stuff. 
Nothing  stirring.  A  frost.  Kidded  him  about 
the  Boers,  and  the  way  the  embattled  farmers 
hung  it  on  perfidious  Albion.  Couldn't  even 
get  a  rise  out  of  him.  All  he  did  was  stare  at 
me  with  those  fishy  eyes  of  his  and  make  mo 
tions  with  his  Adam's  apple!  Ever  notice  the 
way  he  watches  you  when  you're  talking  to 
him?  It's  enough  to  make  a  man  nervous!  A 
major,  eh?  If  he  was  a  major,  I  wonder  what 
the  shave-tail  lieutenants  were  like!  D.  S.  0. ! 
They  got  the  initials  balled  up  when  they  hitched 
that  title  to  him.  It  should  have  been  D.  0.  S. ! " 

"All  right,"  said  Gilman;  "I'll  bite.  I'll  be 
the  Patsy.  Why  D.  0.  S.?" 

' '  Dismal  Old  Souse,  of  course ! ' '  cackled  Wad 
dles.  "Fits  him  like  a  glove,  eh?" 

It  was  then  that  I  expressed  my  opinion,  as 
previously  quoted :  ' '  You  can 't  tell  much  about 
an  Englishman  by  looking  at  him. ' ' 

But  Waddles  only  laughed.  He  usually  laughs 
at  his  own  witticisms. 

"D.  0.  S.,"  said  he.  "Impromptu,  but  good. 
I'll  have  to  tell  it  to  the  boys 1" 


[94] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


n 

But  for  Cyril,  I  suppose  the  Major  would 
have  remained  a  chair  warmer  indefinitely. 

Cyril  was  the  Major's  nephew,  doing  a  bit  of 
globe  trotting  after  getting  out  of  college,  and 
he  dropped  in  out  of  a  clear  sky,  taking  the 
Major  entirely  by  surprise.  We  heard  later  that 
all  the  Major  said  was,  "Bless  me,  it's  Cyril, 
isn't  it?" 

Looking  at  the  boy,  you  knew  at  once  what 
the  Major  had  been  like  at  twenty-five  or  there 
abouts  ;  so  it  goes  without  saying  that  Cyril  was 
no  motion-picture  type  for  beauty.  He  was  tall 
and  thin  and  gangling,  his  feet  were  always 
in  his  way,  his  clothes  did  not  fit  him  and  would 
not  have  fitted  anything  human,  his  cloth  hats 
were  really  not  hats  at  all  but  speckled  poultices, 
and  he  was  as  British  as  the  unicorn  itself.  He 
was  almost  painfully  shy  when  among  strangers, 
and  blushed  if  any  one  spoke  to  him;  but  his 
coming  seemed  to  cheer  the  Major  tremendously. 
It  hadn't  occurred  to  me  before,  but  I  presume 
the  D.  0.  S.  had  been  lonely  for  his  kind.  Cyril 
was  his  kind — no  question  about  that — and  the 
pair  of  them  held  a  love  feast  which  lasted  all 
of  one  afternoon.  Waddles  witnessed  this 
touching  family  reunion  and  told  us  about  it 
afterward,  but  it  is  likely  he  handled  the  truth 
in  his  usual  nonchalant  manner.  Waddles  would 
never  spoil  a  good  story  for  the  sake  of  mere 
accuracy. 

[95] 


FORE! 

* '  It  was  great  stuff ! ' '  said  he.  ' '  They  sat  out 
there  on  the  porch  and  gabbled  terribly.  A 
dumb  man  couldn't  have  got  a  word  in  edge 
wise.  The  Major  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a 
topic  of  conversation.  As  fast  as  one  was  ex 
hausted  he  would  look  in  his  glass  and  say, 
'Shan't  we  have  another,  dear  boy?'  Friend 
Nephew  never  missed  his  cue  once.  'Eawther !' 
he'd  say,  or  'Bight-oh !'  Then  the  Major  would 
hoist  signals  of  distress  and  make  signs  at 
the  waiter.  Oh,  it  was  lovely  to  see  them  taking 
so  much  comfort  in  each  other's  society — and 
so  much  nourishment." 

"What  I  want  to  know  is  this,"  put  in  Jay 
Oilman:  "Did  it  liven  'em  up  any?" 

"Not  so  you  could  notice  it  with  the  naked 
eye.  For  all  the  effect  that  anybody  could  see, 
the  stuff  might  just  as  well  have  been  poured 
into  a  pair  of  gopher  holes.  They  went  away 
at  six  o'clock,  solemn  and  dignified,  loaded  to 
capacity  but  not  even  listing  the  least  bit  from 
the  cargo  they'd  taken  on.  A  lot  of  raw  ma 
terial  wasted.  That  sort  of  thing  is  inhuman — 
uncanny.  It  must  be  a  gift  that  runs  in  families 
—what?" 

Before  long  we  had  a  real  sensation — the 
Major  blossomed  out  into  a  playing  member.  A 
mummy  doing  a  song  and  dance  wouldn't  have 
created  any  more  excitement  round  the  club 
house.  Even  the  caddies  were  talking  about 
it. 

Sam  broke  the  news  to  me  while  I  was  practis- 
[96] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


ing  midiron  shots  on  the  other  side  of  the  eight 
eenth  green.  Sam  has  carried  my  bag  for 
years.  He  is  too  old  to  be  a  caddie,  too  young 
to  be  a  member  of  the  Supreme  Court,  and  too 
wise  for  either  job.  He  shoots  the  course  in 
the  seventies  every  time  he  can  dodge  the  greens 
keeper — play  by  employes  being  strictly  pro 
hibited.  He  has  forgotten  more  golf  than  I 
shall  ever  know,  and  tries  hard  to  conceal  the 
superiority  he  feels,  but  never  quite  makes  the 
grade.  You  know  the  sort  of  caddie  I  mean — 
every  club  has  a  few  like  Sam. 

"There  you  go  again!  What  did  I  tell  you 
about  playin'  the  ball  too  far  off  your  right 
foot?  Stiffen  up  those  wrists  a  bit — don't  let 
'em  flop  so.  Put  some  forearm  into  the  shot, 
and  never  mind  lookin'  up  to  see  where  the  ball 
goes.  .  .  .  Say,  that  long,  thin  gentleman,  him 
with  the  nose  and  teeth — the  one  they  call  the 
Major,  that  sits  on  the  porch  so  much  liftin' 
tall  ones — I  caddied  for  him  this  morning." 

"You  don't  tell  me  so!" 

"Yeh,  I  do.  Sure!  Him  and  his  relative — 
the  young  fellah.  Serial,  ain't  it?  Well,  they 
was  both  out  early  this  morning,  the  Major 
beefin'  a  little  about  losin'  his  sleep,  and  sayin' 
he  wouldn't  make  a  fool  of  himself  for  any 
body  else  on  earth ;  but  after  he  connected  with 
a  few  shots  he  began  to  enjoy  it  and  talk  about 
what  a  lovely  day  it  was  goin'  to  be.  You  know 
how  it  is :  any  weather  looks  good  to  you  when 
your  shots  are  comin'  off." 

[97] 


FOKE! 

" Can  he  play  at  all?" 

1  'Who,  the  Major?  A  shark,  I  tell  you !  That 
old  boy  has  been  a  great  golfer  in  his  day,  and 
it  wasn't  so  long  ago  neither.  To  look  at  him 
you  wouldn't  think  he  had  a  full  cleek  shot  in 
his  system,  but  that's  where  he'd  fool  you. 
What's  more,  he  knows  where  it's  goin'  when 
he  ties  into  it.  The  young  fellah  plays  a  mighty 
sweet  game — mighty  sweet.  He  hits  everything 
clean  and  hard  and  right  on  the  line,  but  give  the 
Major  a  few  days'  practise  and  he'll  carry  my 
small  change  every  time.  Knows  more  golf 
than  Serial — got  more  shots,  and  he's  a  whale 
with  his  irons.  He's  a  little  wild  with  his  wood 
off  the  tee — hooks  too  much  and  gets  into  trou 
ble — but  when  he  straightens  out  that  drive  he'll 
have  Serial  playin'  the  odd  behind  him.  Say, 
it'd  be  great  to  get  'em  both  into  the  Invitation 
Tournament,  eh  I" 

Now  our  Invitation  Tournament  is  the  big 
show  of  the  year  in  golfing  circles.  Waddles 
sees  to  that.  All  members  of  the  association 
are  eligible,  but  visitors  have  to  have  a  card  and 
an  invitation  as  welL 

Waddles  always  scans  these  visitors  very 
closely,  and  if  a  man  is  known  as  a  cup  hunter 
no  amount  of  pressure  can  get  him  in.  The 
Major,  being  a  member  of  the  club,  was  auto 
matically  invited  to  participate,  but  Cyril  must 
be  classed  as  a  visitor. 

I  went  to  Waddles  and  told  him  what  Sam 
had  told  me,  suggesting  that  here  was  the  chance 

[98] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


to  coax  the  Major  off  the  porch  for  good,  and 
perhaps  get  him  onto  the  team  later.  I  said 
that  I  thought  it  would  be  a  graceful  thing  to 
issue  an  invitation  to  Cyril  without  waiting  for 
a  request  from  the  Major. 

"You  poor  fish!"  said  Waddles.  "I  was  go 
ing  to  do  that  anyway.  Do  you  think  I'm  asleep 
all  the  time!" 

That  is  the  way  with  "Waddles.  He  can  catch 
an  idea  on  the  fly,  and  before  it  settles  he  has 
adopted  it  as  his  own.  He  doesn't  care  a  brass- 
mounted  continental  who  scared  it  up  in  the  first 
place.  Before  it  lights  it  is  his — all  his.  He 
said  he  didn't  believe  the  Major  was  half  so 
good  as  his  advance  notices,  and,  as  for  the 
full  cleek  shot,  he  pooh-poohed  that  part  of  the 
story  entirely.  Waddles  has  never  mastered  the 
cleek,  but  he  is  a  demon  with  a  bulldog  spoon 
or  with  a  brassy. 

"I'll  do  this  thing — as  a  common  courtesy  to 
a  member,"  said  Waddles;  "but  I'm  not  count 
ing  on  the  Major's  golf.  A  man  can't  lay  off 
for  months  and  come  back  playing  any  sort  of 
a  game." 

So  the  invitation  was  issued  in  Cyril's  name, 
and  we  went  in  search  of  the  Major.  He  was  on 
the  porch  and  Cyril  was  practising  putts  on 
the  clock  green. 

Waddles  can  be  very  formal  and  dignified  and 
diplomatic  when  he  wants  to  be,  and  as  a  salve 
spreader  he  has  few  equals  and  no  superiors. 
He  pays  a  compliment  in  such  a  bluff,  hearty 

[99] 


FORE! 

fashion  that  it  carries  with  it  an  air  of  abso 
lute  sincerity. 

"Major,"  he  began,  "I  can't  tell  you  how 
delighted  I  am  to  hear  that  you  have  taken  up 
the  game  again.  Aside  from  the  pleasure,  it  is 
bound  to  benefit  your  health. ' ' 

"Eh?"  said  the  Major,  staring  at  Waddles 
intently.  "Oh,  yes!  I'm  feeling  quite  well  at 
present,  thanks." 

"And  you'll  feel  better  for  taking  exercise," 
continued  Waddles.  "We  are  hoping  that  you 
will  enter  our  Invitation  Tournament  next  week. 
You'll  get  a  number  of  good  matches,  meet 
some  charming  people  and  make  some  friends. 
Play  begins  on  Wednesday." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Major. 

"You  can  pick  your  own  partner  in  the  quali 
fying  round."  And  here  Waddles  brought  out 
the  envelope  containing  the  invitation.  "I 
thought  likely  you  might  want  to  play  with  your 
nephew." 

The  Major  took  the  envelope  and  opened  it. 
After  he  had  read  the  inclosure  he  looked  up 
at  Waddles  and  smiled. 

'  *  Very  kind  of  you,  I  'm  sure, ' '  said  he.  ' '  Most 
kind.  Cyril  will  appreciate  this.  .  .  .  Shan't 
we  have  a  drink!" 

'"Can  you  beat  him!"  said  Waddles  to  me 
when  we  were  back  in  the  lounging  room.  "Just 
about  as  chummy  as  an  oyster!" 

"Either  that  or  very  inattentive,"  said  I; 
[100] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


"but  just  the  same  I  think  he'll  play.  Cyril 
will  persuade  him." 

"I  don't  care  a  whoop  whether  he  plays  or 
not,"  growled  Waddles.  "I  hate  a  man  who 
can't  loosen  up  and  talkl" 

" There  is  only  one  thing  worse,"  said  I, 
"and  that  is  a  man  who  talks  too  much." 

Waddles  took  my  remark  as  personal  and 
wolfed  at  me  for  half  an  hour.  Why  is  it  that 
the  man  who  has  no  consideration  for  your  feel 
ings  is  always  so  confoundedly  sensitive  about 
his  own? 

in 

Flashing  now  to  a  close-up  of  the  scores  for 
the  qualifying  round,  there  were  two  strange 
faces  in  the  first  sixteen — Cyril's  and  the  Ma 
jor's — and  Cyril  walked  off  with  the  cup  offered 
for  low  man.  His  seventy-three  created  quite 
a  commotion  among  the  Class  A  men,  but  the 
Major's  eighty-one  was  what  knocked  them  all 
a  twister.  Even  Waddles  was  amazed.  Wad 
dles  had  turned  in  an  eighty-five,  which  barely 
got  him  into  the  championship  flight,  but  medal 
scores  are  nothing  in  Waddles'  life.  Match 
play  is  where  he  shines — match,  play  against  a 
nervous  opponent 

"The  old  rum-hound  must  have  been  shoot 
ing  over  his  head,"  said  Waddles.  "I'll  bet 
he  holed  a  lot  of  niblick  shots. ' ' 

I  might  have  been  in  the  fourth  flight  if  I 
had  not  picked  up  my  ball  after  playing  eleven 
[101] 


POKE ! 

in  the  ditch  at  the  fifth  hole,  and  by  that  act 
eliminated  myself  from  the  tournament.  I 
finished  the  round,  of  course,  and  signed  my 
partner's  card,  becoming  thereafter  a  mere  spec 
tator  and  a  bit  of  the  gallery. 

Sam  was  disgusted  with  me — so  much  so  that 
he  refused  me  advice  or  sympathy.  As  a  usual 
thing  Sam  walks  up  on  a  drive  and  selects  the 
club  which  he  thinks  I  should  use.  I  may  dis 
agree  with  him,  but  I  notice  that  in  the  end  I 
always  make  the  shot  with  the  club  of  his 
selection.  If  I  am  short  he  tells  me  that  I 
spared  the  shot;  if  I  am  over  he  says  I  hit  it 
too  hard. 

After  the  catastrophe  at  the  fifth  hole  Sam 
stood  the  bag  on  end  and  turned  his  back,  a 
statue  of  silent  contempt.  When  he  allows  me 
to  pick  out  a  club  I  know  that  he  has  washed 
Ms  hands  of  me ;  when  he  will  not  accept  a  ciga 
rette  I  am  past  praying  for.  I  can  think  of 
nothing  more  keenly  humiliating  than  to  feel 
myself  a  disappointment  to  a  caddie  like  Sam, 
but  I  have  disappointed  him  so  often  that  he 
should  be  getting  hardened  to  it  by  now. 

The  first  and  second  rounds  of  match  play 
took  place  on  Thursday,  and  the  pairings  put 
Cyril  at  the  top  of  the  drawing  and  the  Major 
at  the  bottom.  "When  the  day  was  over  the  first 
flight  had  assumed  a  distinctly  international 
aspect,  for  the  semifinalists  appeared  as  fol 
lows: 

[102] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


Waddles  versus  Cyril ;  Jay  Gilman  versus  the 
Major. 

Cyril  had  won  his  matches  quite  handily  and 
without  being  pressed,  but  the  Major  had  caught 
a  brace  of  seasoned  campaigners,  one  of  whom 
took  him  to  the  twentieth  hole  before  he  passed 
out  on  the  end  of  a  long  rainbow  putt. 

Gilman  had  played  his  usual  steady  game — 
nothing  brilliant  about  it,  but  extremely  depend 
able;  and,  as  for  Waddles,  he  had  staggered 
along  on  the  ragged  edge  of  defeat  both  morn 
ing  and  afternoon,  annoying  his  opponents  as 
much  as  possible  and  winning  quite  as  much 
with  his  head  as  with  his  clubs. 

The  time  has  come  to  say  a  few  brief  but 
burning  words  about  the  way  friend  Waddles 
plays  the  royal  and  ancient  game  of  golf  when 
there  is  anything  in  sight  for  the  victor.  I 
trust  that  when  he  reads  this  he  will  have  the 
decency  to  remember  that  he  had  already  cut 
my  handicap  to  the  quick,  as  it  were. 

To  begin  with,  Waddles  has  no  more  form 
than  an  apple  woman  or  a  Cubist  nude.  He  is 
so  constructed  that  he  cannot  take  a  full  swing 
to  save  his  immortal  soul.  Everything  has  to 
bo  wrist  and  forearm  with  Waddles,  but  some 
how  or  other  he  manages  to  snap  his  foolish 
little  tee  shots  straight  down  the  middle  of  the 
course,  popping  them  high  over  the  bunkers  and 
avoiding  all  the  traps  and  pits.  The  special 
providence  that  cares  for  taxicab  drivers,  sail 
ors  and  drunken  men  seems  to  take  charge  of 
[103] 


FORE! 

Waddles'  ball  in  flight,  imparting  to  it  a  tre 
mendous  overspin  that  gives  it  distance.  I 
never  saw  Waddles  square  away  at  a  drive 
without  pitying  him  for  his  short,  choppy  swing ; 
but  he  usually  beats  me  about  ten  yards  on  ac 
count  of  the  run  that  he  gets.  I  never  watched 
him  jab  at  a  putt  without  feeling  certain  that 
the  ball  was  hit  too  hard  to  stay  in  the  hole; 
but  stay  it  does.  Waddles  actually  putts  with 
an  overspin,  and  his  ball  burrows  like  a  mole, 
dropping  into  the  cup  as  if  made  of  lead. 

His  brassy  shots  are  just  pusillanimous- 
there  is  no  other  word  which  describes  them 
accurately — but  somehow  they  keep  on  bouncing 
toward  the  pin.  His  irons  run  half-way  and 
creep  the  rest  of  the  distance.  He  always  gets 
better  results  than  his  shots  deserve,  and  com 
plains  that  he  should  have  had  more.  This  one 
little  trick  of  his  is  enough  to  drive  an  opponent 
crazy.  Every  golfer  knows  the  moral — no,  im 
moral — effect  of  going  up  against  some  one  who 
gets  more  out  of  every  shot  than  he  puts  into 
it,  and  still  is  not  satisfied.  It  is  like  sitting 
in  a  poker  game  with  a  man  who  draws  four  to 
a  deuce,  makes  an  ace  full,  wins  the  pot,  and  then 
wolfs  because  it  wasn't  four  aces. 

I  never  played  with  Waddles  without  feel 
ing  certain  that  I  could  show  him  up  on  the  long 
game,  and  it  was  straining  to  do  it  that  ruined 
me.  Trying  to  pick  the  tail  feathers  out  of  that 
lame  duck  has  ruined  many  a  golfer,  the  secret 
being  that  the  duck  isn't  as  lame  as  he  looks. 
[104] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


Waddles  makes  'em  all  press — a  big  factor  in 
his  match  play;  but  there  are  others,  and  not 
nearly  so  legitimate. 

Playing  the  game  strictly  on  merit,  observing 
all  the  little  niceties  of  demeanour  and  the  cour 
tesies  due  an  opponent,  Waddles  would  be  a 
desperately  hard  man  to  beat;  but  he  does  not 
stop  at  merit.  When  he  is  out  to  win  he  does 
not  stop  anywhere.  He  has  made  a  lifelong 
study  of  the  various  ways  in  which  an  opponent 
may  be  annoyed  and  put  off  his  game,  and  he  is 
the  acknowledged  master  of  all  of  them. 

For  instance,  if  he  plays  Doc  Jones,  who  is 
chatty  and  conversational  and  likes  to  talk  be 
tween  shots,  Waddles  never  opens  his  mouth 
once,  but  plods  along  with  a  scowl  on  his  face 
and  his  lower  lip  sticking  out  a  foot.  Before 
long  the  poor  little  Doc  begins  to  wonder 
whether  he  has  said  anything  to  hurt  Wad 
dles'  feelings — and  that  is  the  end  of  Jones. 
But  if  Waddles  plays  Chester  Hodge,  who  be 
lieves  that  the  secret  of  a  winning  game  is  con 
centration,  he  is  a  perfect  windmill,  talking  to 
Chester  every  minute,  telling  him  funny  stories, 
asking  him  questions,  and  literally  conversing 
him  off  his  feet. 

Bill  Mulqueen  is  nervous  and  impatient  and 
hates  to  wait  on  his  second  shots;  so  when 
Waddles  plays  him  he  drives  short  and  takes 
five  minutes  to  play  the  odd,  while  Bill  fumes 
and  frets  and  accumulates  steam  for  the  final 
explosion,  which  never  fails  to  strew  the  last 
[105] 


FOKE !  , 

nine  with  his  mangled  remains.  On  the  other 
hand,  old  Barrison  is  deliberation  itself,  and 
Waddles  beats  him  by  playing  his  own  shots 
quickly  and  then  crowding  Barry — hurrying  him 
up,  nagging  at  him,  riding  him  from  shot  to 
shot,  trying  to  speed  up  an  engine  that  can't 
be  speeded  without  racking  itself  to  pieces.  Joe» 
Bowhan  hates  to  have  any  one  moving  about  the 
tee  when  he  is  setting  himself  to  drive.  Wad 
dles  licks  him  by  washing  his  ball  fresh  on  every 
hole.  Joe  can't  see  him,  but  he  can  hear  him 
scouring  away  behind  him.  "Hand-laundered 
out  of  the  contest  again"  is  what  Joe  tells  us 
when  he  comes  into  the  clubhouse. 

Perhaps  the  cruelest  thing  Waddles  ever  did 
was  in  the  finals  of  the  Spring  Handicap  against 
young  Archie  Gatter.  The  kid  was  inclined  to 
think  fairly  well  of  himself  and  his  game,  but 
on  the  day  of  the  match  Waddles  lugged  a  visit 
ing  golf  architect  round  the  course  with  him, 
planning  improvements  in  the  way  of  traps  and 
bunkers,  discussing  various  kinds  of  grass  for 
the  greens,  arguing  about  soil,  and  paying  no 
attention  whatever  to  the  wretched  Archie — not 
even  watching  him  make  his  shots.  It  broke 
the  boy's  heart  to  be  ignored  so  completely,  and 
he  shot  the  last  nine  holes  in  a  fat  fifty-seven, 
finishing  a  total  wreck. 

These  are  only  a  few  of  Waddles'  little  vil 
lainies,  and  the  fact  that  he  is  a  consistent  win 
ner  at  match  play  bears  out  the  theory  that  the 

[106] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


best  study  of  golf  is  golfers — splitting  it  fifty- 
fifty  with  the  late  Mr.  Pope. 

The  most  exasperating  thing  about  Waddles 
is  the  bland,  unconscious  manner  in  which  he 
perpetrates  these  outrages  upon  his  opponents. 
He  never  seems  aware  that  he  is  doing  any 
thing  wrong  or  taking  an  unfair  advantage ;  he 
pleads  thoughtlessness  if  driven  into  a  corner — 
and  gets  away  with  it  too.  You  have  to  know 
Waddles  very  well  before  you  are  certain  that 
every  little  movement  has  a  meaning  all  its 
own  and  is  part  of  a  cold-blooded  and  delib 
erate  plan  of  campaign. 

With  all  these  things  in  mind,  I  had  a  hunch 
that  Friday's  match  with  Cyril  would  be  worth 
watching,  and  I  was  at  the  clubhouse  at  nine  in 
the  morning.  Cyril  and  the  Major  were  already 
there,  driving  practise  balls.  It  was  generally 
understood  that  the  matches  in  the  semi-finals 
would  start  at  nine-thirty,  and  promptly  on  the 
dot  Jay  Gilman  and  the  Major  were  on  their 
way — both  of  them  off  to  perfect  drives. 

I  waited  to  follow  Cyril  and  Waddles — and  a 
long,  weary  wait  it  was.  There  is  nothing  which 
secures  the  angora  so  neatly  and  completely  as 
to  be  all  dressed  up  and  keyed  up  with  nowhere 
to  go.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  boxer  fretting  and 
chafing  in  his  corner,  waiting  for  the  champion 
to  put  in  an  appearance ;  and  did  you  ever  stop 
to  think  that  the  champion,  in  his  dressing  room, 
was  counting  on  the  effect  of  that  nervous 
period  of  inactivity?  Golf  is  a  game  which  de- 

[107] 


FORE! 

mands  mental  poise,  and  Cyril  was  losing  his, 
minute  by  minute.  He  prowled  all  over  the 
place,  searching  for  Waddles;  he  walked  out 
and  looked  down  the  road  toward  town;  he 
practiced  putting — and  hit  every  shot  too  hard. 
If  he  had  not  been  an  Englishman,  and  schooled 
to  keep  his  feelings  to  himself,  I  think  he  would 
have  said  something  of  a  blistering  nature. 

It  was  eleven-fifteen  when  "Waddles  arrived, 
dripping  apologies  from  every  pore.  Had  Cyril 
understood  that  nine-thirty  was  the  hour?  Well, 
wasn't  that  a  shame — too  bad  he  hadn't  tele 
phoned  or  something!  Waddles  stated — and 
there  was  and  is  no  reason  to  doubt  his  word — 
that  he  thought  the  matches  were  scheduled  for 
the  afternoon.  He  dawdled  in  the  locker  room 
for  a  scandalously  long  time,  while  Cyril  made 
little  journeys  to  the  first  tee  and  back  again, 
growing  warmer  and  warmer  with  each  trip. 

When  Waddles  finally  emerged,  neatly 
swathed  in  flannels,  he  suggested  lunch.  Cyril 
replied  a  bit  stiffly  that  he  never  took  food  in 
the  middle  of  the  day. 

"And  a  hard  match  in  front  of  you,  too,"  said 
Waddles.  * '  I  couldn  't  think  of  starting  without 
a  sandwich.  Do  you  mind  waiting  while  I  have 
one?" 

Cyril  lied  politely,  but  it  was  a  terrible  strain 
on  him,  and  Waddles  consumed  a  sandwich,  a 
glass  of  milk  and  forty-five  minutes  more.  Then 
he  had  to  have  one  of  his  irons  wrapped  where 
the  shaft  had  split — another  straw  for  the 

[108] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


camel's  back.  By  this  time  the  Major  and  Jay 
had  finished  their  match,  the  Major  winning 
on  the  sixteenth  green.  They  joined  the  gal 
lery,  after  the  usual  ceremonies  at  the  nine 
teenth  hole. 

"Are  you  ready?"  asked  Waddles,  breezing 
out  on  the  first  tee — arid  that  was  rather  nervy, 
too,  seeing  that  Cyril  hadn't  been  anything  else 
for  three  mortal  hours. 

"After  you,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  short  and 
sharp.  He  knew  that  he  was  getting  "the  work," 
and  he  resented  it. 

It  always  suits  Waddles  to  have  the  honour. 
He  likes  to  shoot  first  because  his  tee  shot 
usually  makes  an  opponent  sore.  He  popped 
one  of  his  dinky  little  drives  into  the  air,  but 
instead  of  dropping  into  the  bunker  it  floated 
beyond  it  to  the  middle  of  the  course  and  ran 
like  a  scared  rabbit. 

1 1  No  distance ! ' '  grumbled  Waddles,  slapping 
his  club  on  the  tee.  "No  distance.  I'm  all  out 
of  luck  to-day. ' ' 

Well,  that  was  no  more  than  rubbing  it  in  by 
word  of  mouth.  It  produced  the  desired  effect, 
because  Cyril  nearly  broke  himself  in  two  in  an 
attempt  to  beat  that  choppy  half-arm  swing. 
He  swung  much  too  hard,  didn't  follow  through 
at  all,  and  the  ball  sliced  into  a  trap  far  up  to 
the  right. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  did  then?"  asked 
Waddles.  "You  tried  to  kill  it,  you  didn't  fol 
low  through,  and " 

[109] 


FOKE! 

"And  I  sliced.  I  know  perfectly,  thanks." 
And  Cyril  started  down  the  course,  with  Wad 
dles  tagging  at  his  hip  and  telling  him  what 
was  the  matter  with  his  swing.  Coming  from 
a  man  who  never  took  a  full-arm  wallop  at  a 
ball  in  his  life,  criticism  must  have  seemed 
superfluous.  I  couldn't  see  Cyril's  face,  but  his 
ears  reddened. 

Waddles  slapped  a  brassy  to  the  edge  of  the 
putting  green,  but  Cyril,  trying  for  distance  out 
of  a  heel  print,  took  too  much  sand  and  barely 
got  back  on  the  course  again.  His  third  reached 
the  green,  whereupon  Waddles  promptly  laid  his 
ball  dead  for  a  four.  Cyril  missed  a  twenty- 
footer  and  lost  the  first  hole. 

Again  Waddles  spatted  out  a  drive  that  nar~ 
rowly  escaped  a  cross  bunker,  but  it  struck  on 
a  hard  spot  and  ran  fully  one  hundred  yards  be 
fore  it  stopped.  Waddles  knows  every  hard 
spot  on  the  course  and  governs  himself  accord 
ingly. 

Cyril  followed  through  this  time — followed 
through  so  vigorously  that  the  ball  developed 
a  hook.  A  cross  wind  helped  it  along  into  the 
rough  grass,  leaving  him  a  nasty  second  shot 
over  shrubbery  and  trees.  It  hadn't  stopped 
rolling  before  Waddles  was  talking  again. 

"You  know  what  you  did  then?  Too  much 
right  hand;  and  your  club  head " 

"Precisely,"  said  Cyril,  and  left  the  tee  al 
most  on  a  dog-trot;  but  Waddles  trotted  with 
him,  explaining  what  had  happened  to  the  club 

[110] 


THE    MAJOK,    D.    O.    S. 


head.  He  was  so  earnest  about  it,  so  eager  to 
be  of  assistance,  so  persistent,  that  Cyril  did 
not  know  how  to  take  him.  Then,  to  add  to  the 
boy's  discomfiture,  Waddles  played  a  perfect 
spoon  shot,  taking  advantage  of  the  wind,  and 
the  ball  stopped  six  feet  from  the  pin.  Only  a 
miracle  could  have  saved  Cyril  after  that,  and 
there  were  no  miracles  left  in  his  system.  His 
ball  carried  low  from  the  rough,  struck  the  limb 
of  a  tree  and  glanced  out  of  bounds.  He  played 
another,  which  dropped  into  thick  weeds,  and 
then  picked  up,  conceding  the  hole.  All  the  way 
to  the  third  tee  Waddles  expounded  the  theory 
of  the  niblick  shot  out  of  grass,  pausing  only  to 
spat  another  perfect  ball  down  the  course. 

It  was  here  that  Cyril  left  the  wood  in  his 
bag  and  took  out  a  cleek.  He  wanted  distance 
and  he  needed  direction,  our  third  hole  calling 
for  a  well-placed  tee  shot;  but  he  sliced  just 
enough  to  put  him  squarely  behind  the  largest 
tree  on  the  entire  course. 

"I  was  sure  you'd  do  that,"  said  Waddles, 
sympathetically.  "It's  really  a  wooden  club 
shot,  and  when  you  took  your  iron  I  knew  you 
were  afraid  of  it.  Changing  clubs  is  always  a 
sign  of  weakness,  don't  you  think  so!" 

Cyril  mumbled  something  and  started  down 
the  path,  and  at  this  point  the  old  Major,  who 
had  been  lingering  in  the  background,  swung  in 
behind  him  with  his  first  and  last  bit  of  advice. 

"Keep  your  hair  on,  dear  boy,"  he  bleated. 
[Ill] 


FORE! 

"Keep  your  hair  on.  Whatever  happens,  don't 
get  waxy. ' ' 

Cyril  grunted  but  didn't  say  anything,  and  the 
Major  dropped  to  the  rear  again,  making  queer 
little  noises  in  his  throat. 

"Now  the  ideal — shot  on  this — hole,"  panted 
Waddles,  overtaking  his  victim,  "is  a  little  bit — 
farther  to  the  left.  A  hook — doesn't  hurt  you — 
as  much — as  a  slice " 

"  I  'm  not  hurt  yet ! ' '  snapped  Cyril. 

"Why,  of  course  not!"  cried  Waddles  with 
the  heartiest  good  nature.  "Of  course  not — 
but  if  your  ball — had  been  farther  to  the  left — 
you  wouldn't  have  to  play — over  that  tree — and 
There  was  more,  but  Cyril  did  not  wait 
to  hear  it. 

Waddles,  executing  his  second  with  mechani 
cal  precision,  carried  the  deep  ravine  with  his 
mashie  and  put  the  ball  on  the  green  for  a  sure 
four.  Off  to  the  right  Cyril  prepared  to  do 
likewise,  but  the  tree  loomed  ahead  of  him,  his 
nerves  were  unstrung,  his  temper  was  ruffled, 
and  instead  of  going  cleanly  under  the  ball  he 
caught  the  turf  four  inches  behind  it  and  pitched 
into  the  ravine,  where  he  found  a  lie  that  was 
all  but  unplayable. 

' l  Tough  luck ! ' '  said  Waddles. 

Cyril  turned  and  looked  at  him.  I  expected 
an  outburst  of  some  sort,  but  the  boy  was  evi 
dently  trying  to  keep  his  hair  on. 

"I  didn't  hit  it,"  said  he  at  length,  swallow 
ing  hard.  I  heard  an  odd  choking  noise  behind 

[112] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


me.  It  was  the  Major,  attempting  to  remain 
calm. 

"Of  course  you  didn't  hit  it!"  agreed  Wad 
dles.  l *  You  took  a  hatful  of  turf ;  and  you  know 
why,  don't  you?" 

Cyril  groaned  and  plunged  into  the  ravine. 

"Why  follow  the  harrying  details  too  closely? 
With  the  Major  as  chief  mourner,  and  Waddles 
holding  sympathetic  postmortems  on  all  his  bad 
shots,  Cyril  suffered  a  complete  collapse.  I 
could  have  beaten  him — any  one  could  have 
beaten  him — and  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  beat 
himself.  Having  found  his  weak  spot,  Waddles 
never  let  up  for  an  instant.  Talk,  talk,  talk ;  his 
flow  of  conversation  was  as  irritating  as  a  neigh 
bour 's  phonograph,  and  as  incessant.  I  won 
dered  that  Cyril  contained  himself  as  well  as  he 
did,  until  I  remembered  that  it  is  tradition  with 
the  English  to  lose  as  silently  as  they  win. 

The  Major,  who  saw  it  all,  addressed  but  one 
remark  to  me.  It  was  on  the  tenth  hole,  and 
Waddles  was  showing  Cyril  why  he  had  topped 
an  iron  shot. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  Major,  jerking  his 
thumb  at  Waddles, ' '  does  he  always  do  this  sort 
of  thing!  Talk  so  much,  I  mean?" 

I  replied,  and  quite  truthfully,  that  it  de 
pended  on  the  way  he  felt.  The  Major  grunted, 
and  that  ended  the  conversation. 

The  match  was  wound  up  on  the  thirteenth; 
Cyril  shook  hands,  complimented  Waddles  on 
his  game,  and  made  a  bee  line  for  the  clubhouse. 

[1131 


FOSL! 

Nobody  could  blame  him  for  not  wanting  to  fin 
ish  the .  round.  Waddles  tagged  along  at  his 
elbow,  gesticulating,  explaining  the  theory  of 
golf,  even  offering  to  illustrate  certain  shots 
with  which  Cyril  had  had  trouble. 

The  Major  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  on 
the  porch,  nursing  a  tall  glass  and  looking  at 
the  hills.  After  a  shower  Cyril  joined  him. 

"The  blooming  Britons  are  holding  a  lodge 
of  sorrow,"  said  Waddles,  who  was  in  high 
spirits.  "What's  the  betting  on  the  finals  to 
morrow?" 

"I'll  back  the  Major,"  spoke  up  Jay  Oilman, 
"if  you'll  promise  not  to  talk  the  shirt  off  his 
back." 

"Another  dumb  player,  eh?"  asked  Waddles, 
grinning. 

"Never  opened  his  mouth  to  me  but  once  the 
entire  way  round,"  answered  Jay. 

"And  what  did  he  say  then!" 

"As  near  as  I  recall,"  replied  Jay,  "he  said 
'Dormie!'  " 

"I  hate  a  man  who  can't  talk!"  exclaimed 
Waddles. 

"How  you  must  hate  yourself,"  I  suggested, 
and  was  forced  to  dodge  a  match  safe. 

"Just  the  same,"  persisted  Jay,  "I'll  take 
the  Major's  end  if  you'll  promise  to  keep  your 
mouth  shut. ' ' 

"I'll  accept  no  bets  on  that  basis,"  Waddles 
announced.  ' '  I  like  a  friendly,  chatty  game. ' ' 

"I've  got  you  for  fifty,  then,  and  talk  your 
[114] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


head  off ! ' '  And  Jay  laughed  until  I  thought  he 
would  choke.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  laughed 
all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 


IV 

Quite  a  gallery  turned  out  for  the  finals,  and 
this  time  there  was  no  delay.  Waddles  was  on 
hand  early,  and  so  was  the  Major.  There  was 
considerable  betting,  for  Jay  Gilman  insisted 
on  backing  the  Major  to  the  limit. 

"  You  're  only  doing  that  because  he  beat 
you, ' '  said  Waddles  in  an  injured  tone  of  voice. 

"Make  it  a  hundred  if  you  want  to,"  was 
Jay's  come-back. 

"Fifty  is  plenty,  thanks." 

"What?  Not  weakening  already?"  asked 
Jay.  ' '  A  hundred,  and  no  limit  on  the  conver 
sation!" 

"Got  you!"  snapped  Waddles. 

He  would  have  taken  the  honour,  too,  if  the 
Major  had  not  beaten  him  to  it.  The  old  fel 
low  ambled  out  on  the  tee,  helped  himself  to  a 
pinch  of  sand,  patted  it  down  carefully,  ad 
justed  his  ball,  and  hit  a  screamer  dead  on  the 
pin,  with  just  enough  hook  to  make  it  run  well. 
Then  he  stepped  back,  clapped  his  hands  to  his 
waist  and  cackled — actually  cackled  like  a  hen. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  he,  addressing  Wad 
dles — "I  believe  I've  burst  my  belt!  Yes,  I'm 
quite  certain  I  have;  but  don't  fear,  old  chap. 

[115] 


FORE! 

I  sha'n't  be  indecent.  I  have  braces  on.  Ho, 
ho,  ho!" 

Waddles  paused  with  his  mouth  open.  At 
first  I  thought  he  was  going  to  say  something, 
but  evidently  nothing  occurred  to  him,  so  he 
teed  his  ball  and  took  his  stance. 

"It  was  an  old  one,"  said  the  Major.  "I've 
worn  it  for  ages.  Given  me  by  Freddy  Fitz- 
patrick.  Queer  chap,  Fitz.  .  .  .  You  don't  mind 
my  babbling  a  little,  do  you?  Dare  say  I'm  a 
bit  nervous." 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least,"  grunted  Waddles,  ad 
dressing  his  ball.  He  hit  his  usual  drive,  with 
the  usual  result,  but  his  ball  was  at  least  forty 
yards  short  of  the  Major's. 

"Very  fortunate,  sir!"  bleated  the  Major, 
following  Waddles  from  the  tee.  "Blest  if  I 
see  how  you  do  it !  Your  form — you  don 't  mind 
criticism,  old  chap? — your  form  is  wretchedly 
bad.  Atrocious !  Your  swing  is  cramped,  your 
stance  is  awkward,  yet  somehow  you  manage  to 
get  over  the  bunkers.  Extraordinary,  I  call  it. 
Some  day  you  shall  teach  me  the  stroke  if  you 
will,  eh?" 

Waddles  didn't  say  a  word.  He  tucked  his 
chin  down  into  his  collar  and  made  tracks  for 
his  ball,  but  there  was  a  puzzled  look  in  his 
eyes.  He  didn't  seem  to  know  what  to  make  of 
this  sudden  flood  of  conversation.  The  Major 
was  with  him  every  step  of  the  way,  blatting 
about  his  friend  Fitzpatrick. 

"He  had  a  stroke  like  yours,  old  Fitz. 
[116] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    0.    S. 


Frightfully  crippled  up  with  rheumatism,  poor 
chap !  Abominable  golfer !  No  form,  no  swing, 
but  the  devil's  own  luck.  ...  I  say,  what  club 
shall  you  use  next?  I  should  take  a  cleek,  but 
you  don't  carry  one,  I've  noticed.  Too  bad. 
Very  useful  club,  but  it  calls  for  a  full,  clean 
swing.  You'd  boggle  a  cleek  horribly.  .  .  . 
You're  taking  a  brassy?  Quite  right,  old  chap, 
quite  right.  I  should,  too,  if  I  couldn't  depend 
on  my  irons." 

Waddles  waved  the  Major  aside,  and  pulled 
off  his  shot;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  hur 
ried  the  least  little  bit.  Perhaps  he  was  ex 
pecting  another  outburst  of  language.  His  ball 
stopped  ten  yards  short  of  the  putting  green. 

''Ah!"  said  the  Major.  "You  stabbed  at 
that  one,  dear  boy.  Old  Fitz  stabbed  his  sec 
ond  shots  too.  Nervousness,  I  dare  say;  but 
you  haven't  the  look  of  a  man  with  nerves. 
Eather  beefy  for  that,  I  should  think.  Tight 
match,  and  all.  Too  much  food,  perhaps.  Never 
can  tell,  eh?  Old  Fitz  was  a  gross  feeder  too. 
.  .  .  Now  I'm  going  to  take  an  iron,  and  if  yon 
don't  mind  I  wish  you'd  stand  behind  me  and 
tell  me  how  to  shorten  my  swing  a  bit.  I'm 
inclined  to  play  an  iron  too  strong.  ...  A  little 
farther  over,  if  you  please.  I  don't  want  yon 
where  I  can  see  you,  old  chap,  but  I  sha'n't  mind 
your  talking." 

The  Major  pulled  his  midiron  out  of  the  bag 
and  Waddles  obliged  with  a  steady  stream  of 
advice,  not  one  item  of  which  was  heeded: 
[117] 


FORE  I 

"Advance  that  left  foot  a  little,  and  don't 
drop  your  shoulder  so  much!  Come  back  a  bit 
slower,  keep  your  eye  on  the  ball,  start  your 
swing  higher  up " 

At  this  point  the  blade  of  the  midiron  con 
nected  with  the  ball  and  sent  it  sailing  straight 
for  the  pin — a  beautiful  shot,  and  clean  as  a 
whistle.  A  white  speck  bounded  on  the  green 
and  rolled  past  the  hole. 

"You  see?"  cried  the  Major.  "Too  strong 
— oh,  much  too  strong!" 

"You're  up  there  for  a  putt!"  snorted  Wad 
dles.  "What  did  you  expect — at  this  distance?" 

"With  your  assistance,"  continued  the 
Major,  ignoring  Waddles'  sarcasm,  "I  shall 
shorten  my  swing.  You've  the  shortest  swing 
I've  ever  seen.  Shorter  than  poor  old  Fitz'st 
I'm  sorry  about  that  belt,  but  I  sha'n't  be  inde 
cent.  I  have  braces  on — suspenders,  I  believe 
you  call  them."  He  squinted  at  his  ball  as  he 
advanced.  "Too  strong.  Nevermind.  I  dare 
say  I  shall  hole  the  putt.  .  .  .  You're  taking  a 
mashie  next?  Tricky  shot — very,  especially  on 
a  fast  green." 

Waddles  composed  himself  with  a  visible  ef 
fort  and  really  achieved  a  very  fine  approach 
shot.  The  ball  had  the  perfect  line  to  the  hole, 
but  was  three  feet  short  of  the  cup. 

"Never  up,  never  in !"  cackled  the  Major,  and 
proceeded  to  sink  a  three — a  nasty,  twisting 
twelve-footer,  and  downhill  at  that.  There  was 
a  patter  of  applause  from  the  gallery,  started 

[118] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


by  Oilman  and  Cyril.  The  Major  marched  to 
the  second  tee,  babbling  continually: 

"I  owe  you  an  apology.  Never  had  a  three 
there  before.  Never  shall  again.  Stroke  un 
der  par,  isn't  it?  Not  at  all  bad  for  a  begin 
ning.  Better  luck  next  time.  Wish  I  hadn't 
broken  this  belt.  Puts  me  off  my  shots." 

* '  What  do  you  mean — better  luck  next  time  ? ' ' 
demanded  Waddles,  but  got  no  response.  The 
Major  had  switched  to  his  friend  Fitzpatrick, 
and  was  chirping  about  rheumatism  and  gout 
and  heaven  knows  wrhat  all.  He  stopped  talk 
ing  just  long  enough  to  peel  off  another  tre 
mendous  drive,  and  if  he  had  taken  the  ball  in 
his  hand  and  carried  it  out  on  the  course  he 
couldn't  have  selected  a  better  spot  from  which 
to  play  his  second. 

It  was  on  this  tee  that  Waddles  tried  to  hand 
the  Major's  stuff  back  to  him,  probably  figuring 
that  he  could  stand  as  much  conversation  as  his 
opponent,  and  last  longer  at  the  repartee.  He 
began  to  tell  the  story  of  the  Scotch  golfer  and 
his  collie  dog,  which  is  one  of  the  best  things  he 
does,  but  I  noticed  that  when  it  came  time  for 
him  to  drive  he  grunted  as  he  hit  the  ball,  and 
when  Waddles  grunts  it  is  a  sign  that  he  is  call 
ing  up  the  reserves.  He  got  the  same  old  shot 
and  the  same  old  run,  and  would  have  finished 
the  same  old  story,  but  the  Major  horned  in 
with  a  long-winded  reminiscence  of  his  own, 
and  the  collie  was  lost  in  the  shuffle.  Another 
animal  was  lost  too — a  goat  belonging  to  Wad- 

[119] 


FOKE! 

dies.  He  spoke  sharply  to  his  opponent  before 
playing  his  second,  and  then  sliced  a  spoon  shot 
deep  into  the  rough. 

"Ah,  too  bad!"  chirruped  the  Major.  "And 
the  grass  is  quite  deep  over  there,  isn't  it! 
Now  I  shall  use  the  midiron  again,  and  you 
shall  watch  and  tell  me  about  my  swing — that 
is,  if  you  don't  mind,  old  chap." 

Waddles  didn't  mind.  He  told  the  Major 
enough  things  to  rattle  a  wooden  Indian,  and 
just  as  the  club  had  started  to  descend  he  raised 
his  voice  sharply.  It  would  have  made  me  miss 
the  ball  entirely,  but  it  seemed  to  have  no  ef 
fect  on  the  Major,  who  did  not  even  flinch  but 
lined  one  out  to  the  green. 

Waddles  wandered  off  into  the  rough,  mum 
bling  to  his  caddie.  The  third  shot  was  a  re 
markable  one.  He  tore  the  ball  out  of  the  thick 
grass,  raised  it  high  in  the  air  and  put  it  on  the 
green,  six  feet  from  the  cup.  The  Major  then 
laid  his  third  shot  stone-dead  for  a  four.  Wad 
dles  still  had  a  difficult  putt  to  halve  the  hole, 
but  while  he  was  studying  the  roll  of  the  green 
the  Major  spoke  up. 

"I  shan't  ask  you  to  putt  that,"  said  he.  "I 
concede  you  a  four." 

Waddles  stared  at  him  with  eyes  that  fairly 
bulged. 

"You — what?"  said  he.  "You  give  me  this 
putt?" 

The  Major  nodded  and  walked  off  the  green. 
Waddles  looked  first  at  his  ball,  then  at  the  cup, 

[120] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


and  then  at  the  crowd  of  spectators.  At  last 
he  picked  up  and  followed,  and  a  whisper  ran 
through  the  gallery.  The  general  impression 
prevailed  that  conceding  a  six-foot  putt  at  the 
outset  of  an  important  match  was  nothing  short 
of  emotional  insanity. 

Of  course  since  he  had  been  offered  a  four  on 
the  hole  Waddles  could  do  nothing  but  accept 
it  gracefully — and  begin  wondering  why  on 
earth  his  opponent  had  been  so  generous.  I 
dare  any  golfer  to  put  himself  in  Waddles'  place 
and  arrive  at  a  conclusion  soothing  to  the  nerves 
and  the  temper.  The  most  natural  inference 
was  that  the  Major  held  him  cheaply,  pitied 
him,  did  not  fear  his  game. 

I  thought  this  was  what  the  old  fellow  was 
getting  at,  but  it  was  not  until  they  reached  the 
third  putting  green  that  I  began  to  appreciate 
the  depth  of  the  Major's  cunning  and  the  dia 
bolical  cleverness  of  his  golfing  strategy. 

Waddles  had  a  two-foot  putt  to  halve  the 
third  hole — a  straight,  simple  tap  over  a  per 
fectly  flat  surface — the  sort  of  putt  that  he  can 
make  with  his  eyes  shut,  ninety-nine  times  out 
of  the  hundred.  The  Major  had  already  holed 
his  four,  and  I  knew  by  the  careless  manner  in 
which  Waddles  stepped  up  to  his  ball  that  he 
expected  the  Major  to  concede  the  putt.  It 
was  natural  for  him  to  expect  it,  since  he  had 
already  been  given  a  difficult  six-footer. 

Waddles  stood  there,  waggling  his  putter  be 
hind  the  ball  and  waiting  for  the  Major  to  say 

[121] 


FORE! 

the  word,  but  the  word  did  not  corne.  This 
seemed  to  irritate  "Waddles.  He  looked  at  the 
Major,  and  his  expression  said,  plain  as  print, 
"You  don't  really  insist  on  my  making  this 
dinky  little  putt?"  It  was  all  wasted,  for  the 
Major  was  regarding  him  with  a  fishy  stare — 
looking  clear  through  him  in  fact.  The  ex 
pectant  light  faded  out  of  Waddles'  eyes.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  his  attention 
to  the  shot,  examining  every  inch  of  the  line  to 
the  cup.  It  seemed  to  be  a  straight  putt,  but 
was  it?  Waddles  took  his  lower  lip  in  his  teeth 
and  tapped  the  ball  very  gently.  It  ran  off  to 
the  left,  missing  the  cup  by  at  least  three  inches. 

"Aha!"  chuckled  the  Major.  "You  thought 
I  would  give  you  that  one  too,  eh?  Old  Fitz 
used  to  say,  'Give  a  man  a  hard  putt  and  he'll 
miss  an  easy  one.  After  that  he'll  never  be 
sure  of  anything.'  Extraordinary  how  often  it 
happens  just  that  way.  Seems  to  have  an  un 
settling  effect  on  the  nerves.  Tricky  beggar, 
Fitz.  Won  the  Duffers'  Cup  at  Bombay  by 
conceding  a  twenty-foot  putt  on  the  sixteenth 
green.  Opponent  went  all  to  little  pieces.  Fin 
ished  one  down,  with  a  fifteen  on  the  last  hole. 
Queer  game,  golf!" 

"Yes,"  said  Waddles,  breathing  hard,  "and 
a  lot  of  queer  people  play  it.  Your  honour,  sir." 

The  Major  smacked  out  another  long  one,  but 
Waddles,  boiling  inside  and  scarcely  able  to  see 
the  ball,  topped  his  tee  shot  and  bounded  into 
the  bunker. 

[122] 


THE    MAJOR,    D.    O.    S. 


"You  see  what  it  does,"  said  the  Major. 
"You  were  still  thinking  about  that  putt.  The 
effect  on  the  nerves " 

"Oh,  cut  it  out!"  growled  Waddles.  "Play 
the  game  right  if  you're  going  to  play  it  at  all! 
Your  mouth  is  the  best  club  in  your  bag!" 

The  Major  did  not  resent  this  in  the  least; 
paid  no  attention  in  fact.  He  toddled  away, 
blatting  intermittently  about  his  friend  Fitz, 
and  Waddles  knocked  half  the  sand  out  of  the 
bunker  before  he  finally  emerged,  spitting 
gravel  and  adjectives.  Sore  was  no  name  for 
it!  He  lost  the  hole,  of  course,  making  him 
three  down. 

The  rest  of  the  contest  was  interesting,  but 
only  from  a  psychological  point  of  view.  Evi 
dently  considering  that  he  had  a  safe  lead  the 
Major  cut  out  the  conversation  and  the  horse 
play  and  settled  down  to  par  golf.  There  was  no 
lack  of  talk,  however,  for  Waddles  erupted  con 
stantly.  Braced  by  the  thought  that  he  was 
annoying  his  opponent  by  these  verbal  out 
bursts,  he  managed  to  halve  four  holes  in  a  row, 
but  on  the  ninth  green  he  missed  another  short 
putt.  In  the  explosion  that  followed  he  blew 
off  his  safety  valve  completely,  and  the  rest  of 
the  match  degenerated  into  a  riotous  procession, 
so  far  as  noise  was  concerned. 

The  thing  I  could  not  understand  was  that 
the  Major  held  on  the  even  tenour  of  his  way, 
unruffled  and  serene  as  a  June  morning.  The 
louder  Waddles  talked  the  better  the  old  fellow 

[123] 


FOKE! 

seemed  to  like  it.  Never  once  did  he  seem  dis 
turbed;  never  once  did  he  hesitate  on  a  shot. 
With  calm,  mechanical  precision  he  proceeded 
to  go  through  Waddles  like  a  cold  breeze,  and 
the  latter  was  so  busy  thinking  up  things  to 
say  that  he  flubbed  disgracefully,  and  was 
beaten  on  the  thirteenth  green,  seven  and  five. 

Well,  Waddles  may  have  his  faults,  but  los 
ing  ungracefully  is  not  one  of  them.  He  will 
fight  you  to  the  very  last  ditch,  but  once  the 
battle  is  over  he  declares  peace  immediately. 
He  walked  up  to  the  Major  and  held  out  his 
hand.  He  grinned,  too,  though  I  imagine  it 
hurt  his  face  to  do  it. 

"You're  all  right,  Major!"  said  he.  "You're 
immense !  You  licked  me  and  you  made  me  like 
it.  If  I  had  your  nerves — if  I  could  concen 
trate  on  my  shots  and  not  let  anything  bother 
me " 

Some  one  behind  me  laughed.  It  was  Jay 
Oilman. 

"It  has  been  a  pleasure,  dear  chap,"  said  the 
Major.  "A  pleasure,  I  assure  you!" 

Several  of  us  had  dinner  at  the  club  that 
night,  Jay  offering  to  give  the  party  because  of 
the  money  he  had  won  from  Waddles.  When 
the  coffee  came  on,  America's  representative  in 
the  finals  attempted  to  explain  his  defeat. 

"The  Major  began  the  gab-fest,"  said  Wad 
dles.  "He  started  off  chattering  like  a  magpie 
and  trying  to  rattle  me,  and  naturally  I  went 

[124] 


THE    MAJOE,    D.    O.    S. 


back  at  him  with  the  same  stuff.  Fair  for  one 
as  for  the  other,  eh?  I'll  admit  that  he  out- 
generalled  me  by  giving  me  that  putt  on  the 
second  hole,  but  the  thing  that  finally  grabbed 
my  angora  was  his  infernal  concentration. 
Never  saw  anything  like  it !  Why,  he  actually 
asked  me  to  stand  behind  him  and  criticise  his 
swing — while  he  was  shooting,  mind  you?  Asked 
me  to  do  it!  And  when  I  saw  that  he  went 
along  steady  as  the  rock  of  Gibraltar — well,  I 
blew,  that's  all.  I  went  to  pieces.  The  thing 
reacted  on  me.  I'll  bet  that  old  rascal  could 
listen  to  you  all  day  long — and  never  top  a 
ball!" 

" You'd  lose  that  bet,"  said  Jay  quietly. 

"How  do  you  mean — lose  it?"  demanded 
Waddles,  bristling.  "I  talked  my  head  off,  and 
he  didn't  top  any,  did  he?" 

"No;  and  he  didn't  listen  any,  either.  Asa 
matter  of  fact,  you  could  have  fired  a  cannon 
off  right  at  his  hip  without  making  him  miss  a 
shot." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me "  said  Wad 
dles,  gaping. 

Jay  laughed  unfeelingly. 

"You  had  a  fat  chance  of  talking  the  old 
Major  out  of  anything!"  said  he.  "He  hasn't 
advertised  it  much,  because  he's  rather  sensi 
tive  about  his  affliction;  but  he's " 

"Deaf!"  gulped  Waddles. 

"As  a  post,"  finished  Jay. 

Waddles'  jaw  dropped. 
[125] 


FORE! 


There  was  a  long,  painful  silence. 

Then  Waddles  crooked  his  finger  at  the 
waiter. 

"Boy!"  he  called.  "Bring  me  this  dinner 
check  I" 


I126J 


A  MIXED  FOURSOME 


WHEN  the    returns  were    all  in,  a  lot 
of   people   congratulated   the   win 
ners  of  the  mixed-foursome  cups, 
after  which  the  weak-minded  ones 
sympathised  with  Mary  Brooke  and  Russell 
Davidson. 

Sympathy  is  a  wonderful  thing,  and  so  rare 
that  it  should  not  be  wasted.  Any  intelligent 
person  might  have  seen  at  a  glance  that  Mary 
didn't  need  sympathy;  and  as  for  Eussell  Da 
vidson,  there  never  was  a  time  when  he  de 
served  it. 

And  in  all  this  outpouring  of  sentiment,  this 
handshaking  and  back-patting,  nobody  thought 
to  offer  a  kind  word  to  old  Waddles.  Nobody 
shook  him  by  the  hand  and  told  him  that  he  was 
six  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world.  It  seems 
a  pity,  now  that  I  look  back  on  it. 

Possibly  you  remember  Waddles.     He  was, 

is,  and  probably  always  will  be,  an  extremely 

important  member  of  the  Yavapai  Golf  and 

Country  Club.     Important,  did  I  say?     That 

[127] 


FORE! 

doesn  't  begin  to  express  it.    Omnipotent — that 's 
better. 

To  begin  with,  he  is  chairman  of  the  Greens 
Committee,  holding  dominion  over  every  blade 
of  grass  which  grows  on  the  course.  He  is  in 
timately  acquainted  with  every  gopher  hole, 
hoofprint  and  drain  cover  on  the  club  property. 
Policing  two  hundred  broad  acres  is  a  strong 
man's  job,  but  "Waddles  attends  to  it  in  his 
spare  moments.  He  waves  his  pudgy  hand  and 
says:  "Let  there  be  a  bunker  here,"  and  lo! 
the  bunker  springs  up  as  if  by  magic.  He  abol 
ishes  sand  traps  which  displease  him,  and  cre 
ates  new  ones.  The  heathen  may  rage,  and 
sometimes  they  do,  but  Waddles  holds  on  the 
even  tenor  of  his  way,  hearing  only  one  vote, 
and  that  vote  his  own. 

Then  again,  he  is  the  official  handicapper — • 
another  strong  man's  job — with  powers  which 
cannot  be  overestimated.  Some  handicappers 
are  mild  and  apologetic  creatures  who  believe 
in  tempering  justice  with  mercy  and  pleasing  as 
many  people  as  possible,  but  not  our  Waddles. 

Heaven  pity  the  wily  cup  hunter  who  keeps 
an  improved  game  under  cover  in  order  that  he 
may  ease  himself  into  a  competition  and  clean 
up  the  silverware ! 

1  Waddles  hates  a  cup  hunter  with  a  deep  and 
abiding  hatred  and  deals  with  him  accordingly. 
There  was  once  an  18-handicap  man  who 
waltzed  blithely  through  our  Spring  Handicap, 
and  his  wrorst  medal  round  was  something  like 
[128] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


85.  His  fat  allowance  made  all  his  opponents 
look  silly  and  he  took  home  a  silver  water  pit 
cher  worth  seventy-five  dollars. 

This  was  bad  enough,  but  he  crowned  his  in 
famy  by  boasting  openly  that  he  had  outwitted 
Waddles.  The  next  time  the  cup  hunter  had 
occasion  to  glance  at  the  handicap  list  he  re 
ceived  a  terrible  shock. 

"Waddy,"  said  this  person — and  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes  and  a  sob  in  his  voice — "you 
know  that  I'll  never  be  able  to  play  to  a  four 
handicap,  don't  you?" 

"Certainly,"  was  the  calm  response. 

"Then  what  was  the  idea  of  putting  me  at 
such  a  low  mark?" 

"Well,"  said  Waddles  with  a  sweet  smile, 
"I  don't  mind  telling  you,  in  strict  confidence: 
I  cut  you  down  to  four  to  keep  you  honest." 

The  wretched  cup  hunter  howled  like  a  wolf, 
but  it  got  him  nothing.  He  is  still  a  four  man, 
and  if  he  lives  to  be  as  old  as  the  Dingbats  he 
will  never  take  home  another  trophy. 

Not  only  is  Waddles  supreme  on  the  golf 
course  but  he  dominates  the  clubhouse  as  well. 
He  writes  us  tart  letters  about  shaking  dice  for 
money  and  signs  them  "House  Committee,  per 
W."  Really  serious  matters  are  dealt  with  in 
letters  signed  "Board  of  Directors,  per  W." 
The  old  boy  is  the  law  and  the  prophets,  the 
fine  Italian  hand,  the  mailed  fist,  the  lord  high 
executioner  and  the  chief  justice,  and  if  he 
[129] 


FORE! 

misses  you  with  one  barrel  he  is  sure  to  get  you 
with  the  other. 

You  might  think  that  this  would  be  power 
enough  for  one  weak  mortal.  You  might  think 
that  there  are  some  things  which  Waddles 
would  regard  as  beyond  his  jurisdiction.  You 
might  think  that  the  little  god  of  love  would 
come  under  another  dispensation — you  might 
think  all  these  things,  but  you  don't  know  our 
Waddles.  Ha  is  afflicted  with  that  strange  mal 
ady  described  by  the  immortal  Cap'n  Prowse 
as  "the  natural  gift  of  authority,"  and  such  a 
man  recognises  no  limits,  knows  no  boundaries, 
and  wouldn  't  care  two  whoops  if  he  did.  Come 
to  think  of  it,  the  Kaiser  is  now  under  treatment 
for  the  same  ailment. 

Since  I  have  given  you  some  faint  concep 
tion  of  Waddles  and  his  character  I  will  pro 
ceed  with  the  plain  and  simple  tale  of  Mary 
Brooke,  Bill  Hawley  and  Russell  Davidson. 
Beth  Rogers  was  in  the  foursome  too,  but  she 
doesn't  really  count,  not  being  in  love  with  any 
one  but  herself. 

n 

Ladies  first  is  a  safe  rule,  so  we  will  start 
with  Mary.  My  earliest  recollection  of  this 
young  woman  dates  back  twenty-and-I-won 't- 
say-how-many-more  years,  at  which  time  she 
entertained  our  neighbourhood  by  reciting  nurs 
ery  rimes — "Twinka,  twinka,  yitty  tar,"  and 
all  the  rest  of  that  stuff. 
[130] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


I  knew  then  that  she  was  an  extremely  bright 
child  for  her  age.  Her  mother  told  me  so.  I 
used  to  hold  her  on  my  lap  and  let  her  listen 
to  my  watch,  and  the  cordial  relations  which 
existed  then  have  lasted  ever  since.  She  doesn't 
sit  on  my  lap  any  more,  of  course,  but  you  un 
derstand  what  I  mean. 

I  watched  Mary  lose  her  baby  prettiness  and 
her  front  teeth.  I  watched  her  pass  through 
that  distressing  period  when  she  seemed  all  legs 
and  freckles,  to  emerge  from  it  a  different  be 
ing — only  a  little  girl  still,  but  with  a  trace  of 
shyness  which  was  new  to  me,  and  a  look  in 
her  eyes  which  made  me  feel  that  I  must  be 
growing  a  bit  old. 

About  this  time  I  was  astounded  to  learn  that 
Mary  had  a  beau.  It  was  the  Hawley  kid,  who 
lived  on  the  next  block.  His  parents  had  named 
him  William,  after  an  uncle  with  money,  but 
from  the  time  he  had  been  able  to  walk  he  had 
been  called  Bill.  He  will  always  be  called  Bill, 
because  that's  the  sort  of  fellow  he  is.  4 

As  I  remember  him  at  the  beginning  of  his 
love  affair  Bill  was  somewhat  of  a  mess,  with 
oversized  hands  and  feet,  a  shock  of  hair  that 
never  would  stay  put,  and  an  unfortunate  habit 
of  falling  all  over  himself  at  critical  moments. 
He  attached  himself  to  Mary  Brooke  with  all 
the  unselfish  devotion  of  a  half-grown  New 
foundland  pup,  minus  the  pup's  rough  demon 
strations  of  affection. 

He  carried  Mary's  books  home  from  school, 
[131] 


FOKE  I 


he  took  her  to  the  little  neighbourhood  parties, 
he  sent  her  frilly  pink  valentines,  and  once — 
only  once — he  stripped  his  mother's  rose  gar 
den  because  it  was  Mary's  birthday.  It  also 
happened  to  be  Mrs.  Hawley's  afternoon  to  en 
tertain  the  whist  club,  and  she  had  been  count 
ing  on  those  roses  for  decorations.  If  my  mem 
ory  serves  me,  she  allowed  Mary  to  keep  the 
flowers,  but  she  stopped  the  amount  of  a  florist 's 
bill  out  of  her  son's  allowance  of  fifty  cents  a 
week.  The  Hawleys  are  all  practical  people. 

Mary's  father  used  to  fuss  and  fume  and  say 
that  he  hoped  Bill  would  get  over  it  and  park 
his  big  clumsy  feet  on  somebody  else's  front 
porch,  but  I  don't  think  he  really  minded  it  as 
much  as  he  pretended  he  did.  Mrs.  Brooke  often 
remarked  that  since  it  had  to  be  somebody  she 
would  rather  it  would  be  Bill  than  any  other 
boy  in  the  neighbourhood.  Even  in  those  days 
there  was  something  solid  and  dependable  about 
Bill  Hawley;  he  was  the  sort  of  kid  that  could 
be  trusted,  and  more  of  a  man  at  sixteen  than 
some  fellows  will  ever  be. 

During  Mary 's  high-school  days  several  boys 
carried  her  books,  but  not  for  long,  and  Bill 
was  always  there  or  thereabouts,  waiting  pa 
tiently  in  the  background.  When  another  young 
ster  had  the  front  porch  privilege  Bill  did  not 
sulk  or  rock  the  boat,  and  if  the  green-eyed  mon 
ster  was  gnawing  at  his  vitals  there  were  no  out 
ward  signs  of  anguish.  We  always  knew  when 
one  of  Mary's  little  affairs  was  over  because 
[132] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


Bill  would  be  back  on  the  job,  nursing  his  shin 
on  Brooke's  front  steps  and  filling  the  whole 
block  with  an  air  of  silent  devotion.  I  suppose 
he  grew  to  be  a  habit  with  Mary;  such  things 
do  happen  once  in  a  while. 

Then  Bill  went  away  to  college,  and  while  he 
was  struggling  for  a  sheepskin  Mary  entered 
the  debutante  period.  Some  of  the  women  said 
that  she  wasn't  pretty,  but  they  would  have 
had  a  hard  time  proving  it  to  a  jury  of  men. 
Her  features  may  not  have  been  quite  regular, 
but  the  general  effect  was  wonderfully  pleas 
ing;  so  the  tabbies  compromised  by  calling  her 
attractive.  They  didn't  have  a  chance  to  say 
anything  else,  because  Mary  was  always  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  masculine  admirers,  and 
if  that  doesn't  prove  attraction,  what  does? 

In  addition  to  her  good  looks  she  was  bright 
as  a  new  dollar — so  bright  that  she  didn't  de 
pend  entirely  on  her  own  cleverness  but  gave 
you  a  chance  to  be  clever  yourself  once  in  a 
while.  Mary  Brooke  knew  when  to  listen.  She 
listened  to  Waddles  once,  from  one  end  of  a 
country-club  dinner  to  the  other,  and  he  gave 
her  the  dead  low  down  on  the  reformer  in  pol 
itics — a  subject  on  which  the  old  boy  is  fairly 
well  informed.  I  think  his  fatherly  interest  in 
her  dated  from  that  evening — and  incidentally 
let  me  say  it  was  the  best  night's  listening  that 
Mary  ever  did,  because  if  Waddles  hadn't  been 
interested — but  that's  getting  ahead  of  the 
story. 

[133] 


FOKE! 

"There's  something  to  that  little  Brooke 
girl!"  he  told  me  afterward.  "A  society  bud 
with  brains !  Who  'd  have  thought  it? " 

Bill  came  ambling  home  from  time  to  time 
and  picked  up  the  thread  of  friendship  again. 
It  grieves  me  to  state  that  an  Eastern  college 
did  not  improve  his  outward  appearance  to  any 
marked  extent.  He  looked  nothing  at  all  like 
the  young  men  we  see  in  the  take- 'em-off-the- 
shelf  clothing  ads.  He  was  just  the  same  old 
Bill,  with  big  hands  and  big  feet  and  more  hair 
than  he  could  manage.  He  danced  the  one-step, 
of  course — the  only  dance  ever  invented  for 
men  with  two  left  feet — but  his  conception  of 
the  fox  trot  would  have  made  angels  weep,  and 
I  never  realised  how  much  hesitation  could  be 
crowded  into  a  hesitation  waltz  until  I  saw  Bill 
gyrate  slowly  and  painfully  down  the  floor. 
Mary  always  seemed  glad  to  see  him,  though, 
and  we  heard  whispers  of  an  engagement,  to  be 
announced  after  Bill  had  made  his  escape  from 
the  halls  of  learning.  Like  most  of  the  whisper 
ing  done,  this  particular  whisper  lacked  the 
vital  element  of  truth,  but  the  women  had  a 
lovely  time  passing  it  along. 

"Isn't  it  just  too  perfectly  ideal — sweet 
hearts  since  childhood!  Think  of  it!" 

"Yes,  we  so  seldom  see  anything  of  the  sort 
nowadays. ' ' 

1 1  There 's  one  advantage  in  that  kind  of  match 
— they  won't  have  to  get  acquainted  with  each 
other  after  marriage." 

[134] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


"Well,  now,  I  don't  know  about  that.  Doesn't 
one  always  find  that  one  has  married  a  total 
stranger?  Poor,  dear  Augustus!  I  thought  I 
knew  him  so  well,  but — 

And  so  forth,  and  so  on,  by  the  hour.  Give  a 
woman  a  suspicion,  and  she  '11  manage  to  juggle 
it  into  a  certainty.  Shortly  before  Bill's  grad 
uation,  the  dear  ladies  at  the  country  club  had 
the  whole  affair  settled,  even  to  the  probable 
date  of  the  wedding,  and  of  course  Mary  heard 
the  glad  news.  Naturally,  she  was  annoyed. 
It  annoys  any  young  woman  to  find  the  most  im 
portant  event  of  her  life  arranged  in  advance 
by  people  who  have  never  taken  the  trouble  to 
consult  her  about  any  of  the  details. 

At  this  point  I  am  forced  to  dip  into  theory, 
because  I  can't  say  what  took  place  inside 
Mary's  pretty  little  head.  I  don't  know.  Per 
haps  she  wanted  to  teach  the  gossips  a  lesson. 
Perhaps  she  resented  having  a  husband  pitch 
forked  at  her  by  public  vote ;  but  however  she 
figured  it  she  needn't  have  made  poor  old  Bill 
the  goat,  and  she  needn't  have  fallen  in  love 
with  Russell  Davidson.  Waddles  says  it  wasn't 
love  at  all — merely  an  infatuation ;  but  what  I'd 
like  to  know  is  this :  How  are  you  going  to  tell 
one  from  the  other  when  the  symptoms  are 
identical? 

in 

Personally,  I  haven't  a  thing  in  the  world 
against  Russell  Davidson.    He  never  did  me  an 
[135] 


FORE! 

injury  and  I  hope  he  will  never  do  me  a  favour. 
Eussell  is  the  sort  of  chap  who  is  perfectly  all 
right  if  you  happen  to  like  the  sort  of  chap  he 
is.  I  don't,  and  that's  the  end  of  the  matter  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned. 

He  hasn't  been  with  us  very  long,  and  still  it 
seems  long  enough.  He  came  West  to  grow  up 
with  the  country,  arriving  shortly  before  Bill's 
graduation,  and  he  brought  with  him  creden 
tials  which  could  not  be  overlooked,  together 
with  an  Eastern  golf  rating  which  caused  Wad 
dles  to  sit  up  and  take  notice. 

Ostensibly  Eussell  is  in  the  brokerage  busi 
ness,  but  he  doesn't  seem  to  work  much  at  it. 
Those  who  know  tell  me  that  it  isn't  necessary 
for  him  to  work  much  at  anything,  his  father 
having  attended  to  that  little  matter.  Some  of 
the  dear  ladies  were  mean  enough  to  hint  that 
Mary  had  this  in  mind,  but  they'll  never  get  me 
to  believe  it. 

At  any  rate  the  gossips  soon  had  a  nice  juicy 
topic  for  conversation,  and  when  Bill  came 
home,  wagging  his  sheepskin  behind  him,  he 
found  the  front-porch  privilege  usurped  by  a 
handsome  stranger  who  seemed  quite  at  home 
in  the  Brooke  household,  and,  unless  I'm  very 
much  mistaken,  inclined  to  resent  Bill's  pres 
ence  on  the  premises. 

It  just  happened  that  I  was  walking  up  and 

down  the  block  smoking  an  after-dinner  cigar 

on  the  evening  when  Bill  discovered  that  he  was 

slated  for  second-fiddle  parts  again.    Russell's 

[136] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


runabout  was  standing  in  front  of  the  Brooke 
place,  there  was  a  dim  light  in  the  living  room, 
and  an  occasional  tenor  wail  from  the  phono 
graph.  I  heard  quick,  thumping  footsteps,  a 
big,  lumbering  figure  came  hurrying  along  the 
sidewalk — and  there  was  Bill  Hawley,  grinning 
at  me  in  the  moonlight. 

"Attaboy!"  he  cried,  shaking  hands  vigor 
ously.  "How 're  you?  How 're  all  the  folks? 
Gee,  it's  great  to  be  home  again!  How's 
Mary?" 

1 '  She 's  fine, ' '  said  I.  ' '  Haven 't  you  seen  her 
yet?" 

"Just  got  in  on  the  Limited  at  five  o'clock. 
Thought  I'd  surprise  her.  Got  a  thousand 
things  to  tell  you.  "Well,  see  you  later ! ' ' 

He  went  swinging  up  the  front  steps  and 
rang  the  bell. 

I  was  finishing  my  cigar  when  Bill  came  out 
again  and  started  slowly  down  the  walk.  His 
wonderful  surprise  party  had  not  lasted  more 
than  twenty  minutes.  I  had  to  hail  him  twice 
before  he  heard  me.  We  took  a  short  walk  to 
gether,  and  reached  the  end  of  the  block  before 
Bill  opened  his  mouth.  On  the  corner  Bill 
swung  round  and  faced  me:  "Who  is  that  fel 
low?"  It  wasn't  a  question;  it  was  a  demand 
for  information. 

"What  fellow?" 

"Davis,  or  Davidson,  something  like  that. 
Who  is  he?" 

There  wasn't  a  great  deal  I  could  tell  him. 
[137] 


FOKE! 

Bill  listened  till  I  got  to  the  end  of  my  string1, 
with  a  perfectly  wooden  expression  on  his 
homely  countenance.  The.l  for  the  first,  last 
and  only  time  he  expressed  his  opinion  of  Bus- 
sell  Davidson. 

*  '  Humph ! ' '  said  he.  And  after  a  long  pause : 
'  'Humph !" 

You  may  think  that  a  grunt  doesn't  express 
an  opinion,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it's  one  of 
the  most  expressive  monosyllables  in  any  lan 
guage.  It  can  be  made  to  mean  almost  any 
thing.  A  ten-minute  speech  with  a  lot  of  fire 
cracker  adjectives  wouldn't  have  made  Bill's 
meaning  any  clearer. 

The  two  grunts  which  came  out  of  Bill's  sys 
tem  were  fairly  dripping  with  disapproval. 

"It's  a  wonderful  night."  I  felt  the  need  of 
saying  something.  "Must  be  quite  a  relief 
after  all  that  humidity  in  the  East." 

"Uhhuh." 

"I  understand  you  played  pretty  good  golf 
on  the  college  team,  Bill." 

"Uhhuh." 

"We've  made  a  lot  of  improvements  out  at 
the  club.  You  won't  know  the  last  nine  now." 

"Uhhuh." 

I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation  of  slipping  a 
torpedo  under  his  bows.  I  thought  it  might 
wake  him  up  a  trifle. 

' '  Mary  is  playing  a  better  game  now.  David 
son  has  been  teaching  her  some  shots." 

Bill  wanted  to  open  up  and  say  something, 
[138] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


but  he  didn't  know  how  to  go  about  it.  He 
looked  at  me  almost  piteously  and  I  felt 
ashamed  of  myself. 

' '  I  '11  be  going  now, ' '  he  mumbled.  ' '  Haven 't 
had  much  sleep  the  last  few  nights.  Never 
sleep  on  a  train  anyway.  See  you  later." 

That  was  all  I  got  out  of  him,  but  it  was 
enough.  It  wasn't  any  of  my  affair,  of  course, 
but  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  pitied  the 
big,  clumsy  fellow.  I  felt  certain  that  Mary 
was  giving  him  the  worst  of  it,  and  taking  the 
worst  of  it  herself,  but  what  could  I  do?  Ab 
solutely  nothing.  In  life's  most  important 
game  the  spectators  are  not  encouraged  to  sit 
on  the  side  lines  and  shout  advice  to  the  players. 

As  for  Bill,  I  think  he  fought  it  out  with  him 
self  that  night  and  decided  to  return  to  his  boy 
hood  policy  of  watchful  waiting.  It  wasn't  the 
first  time  that  he  had  lost  the  front-porch  privi 
lege,  and  in  the  past  he  had  won  it  back  again 
by  keeping  under  cover  and  giving  the  incum 
bent  a  chance  to  become  tiresome.  Bill  de 
clined  to  play  the  second-fiddle  parts;  he  took 
himself  out  of  Mary's  orchestra  entirely.  He 
did  not  call  on  her  any  more ;  but  I  am  willing 
to  bet  any  sum  of  money,  up  to  ten  dollars,  that 
Bill  knew  how  many  times  a  week  Russell's  run 
about  stood  in  front  of  the  Brooke  place.  Five 
would  have  been  a  fair  average. 

Russell  had  things  all  his  own  way,  and  be 
fore  long  we  began  to  hear  the  same  vague 
whisperings  of  a  wedding,  coupled  with  expres- 
[139] 


FORE! 

sions  of  sympathy  for  Bill.  Bill  heard  those 
whisperings  too — trust  the  dear  ladies  for  that 
— but  he  listened  to  everything  with  a  good- 
natured  grin,  and  even  succeeded  in  fooling  a 
portion  of  the  female  population;  but  he  didn't 
fool  Waddles  and  he  didn't  fool  me.  Bill  met 
Mary  at  dinner  parties  and  dances  now  and 
then,  and  whenever  this  happened  the  women 
watched  every  move  that  he  made,  and  were 
terribly  disappointed  because  he  failed  to  regis 
ter  deep  grief;  but  Bill  never  was  the  sort  to 
wear  his  heart  outside  his  vest.  Russell  was 
very  much  in  evidence  at  all  these  meetings, 
for  he  took  Mary  everywhere,  and  Bill  was 
scrupulously  polite  to  him — the  particular 
brand  of  politeness  which  makes  a  real  man 
want  to  fight.  And  thus  the  summer  waned, 
and  the  winter  season  came  on — for  in  our 
country  we  have  only  two  seasons — and  it  was 
in  November  that  old  Waddles  finally  unbut 
toned  his  lip  and  informed  me  that  young  Mr. 
Davidson  would  never  do. 

It  was  in  the  lounging  room  at  the  country 
club.  We  had  finished  our  round,  and  I  had 
paid  Waddles  three  balls  as  usual.  It  never 
costs  less  than  three  balls  to  play  with  him. 
We  were  sitting  by  the  window,  acquiring  nour 
ishment  and  looking  out  upon  the  course.  In 
the  near  foreground  Russell  Davidson  was 
teaching  Mary  Brooke  the  true  inwardness  of 
the  chip  shot.  He  wasn't  having  a  great  deal 
of  luck.  Waddles  broke  the  silence  by  grunt- 
[1401 


ing.  It  was  a  grunt  of  infinite  disgust.  I 
searched  my  pockets  and  put  a  penny  on  the 
table. 

"For  your  thoughts,"  said  I. 

"They're  worth  more  than  that,"  said  Wad 
dles. 

"Not  to  me." 

There  was  a  period  of  silence  and  then  Wad 
dles  grunted  again. 

' '  Get  it  off  your  chest, ' '  I  advised  him. 

"That  fellow,"  said  Waddles,  indicating  Bus- 
sell  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb,  "gives  me  a 
pain. ' ' 

"And  me,"  said  I. 

"I  thought  Mary  Brooke  had  some  sense," 
complained  Waddles;  "but  I  see  now  that  she's 
like  all  the  rest — anything  with  a  high  shine  to 
it  is  gold.  Now  the  pure  metal  often  has  a  dull 
finish." 

"Meaning  Bill?"  I  asked. 

"Meaning  Bill.  He  isn't  much  to  look  at, 
but  he's  on  the  level,  and  he  worships  the  very 
ground  she  walks  on.  Why  can't  she  see  it?" 

"Why  can't  any  woman  see  it?"  I  asked  him. 

"But  somebody  ought  to  tell  her!  Some 
body  ought  to  put  her  wise!  Somebody " 

"Well,"  I  interrupted,  "why  don't  you  vol 
unteer  for  the  job ! " 

i    "Oh,  Lord!"  groaned  Waddles.     "It's  one 
of  the  things  that  can't  be  done.    Tell  her  and 
you  'd  only  make  matters  that  much  worse.    And 
I  thought  Mary  Brooke  had  brains!" 
[141] 


FOKE! 

There  was  a  long  break  in  the  conversation, 
during  which  Waddles  munched  great  quanti 
ties  of  pretzels  and  cheese.  Then : 

"I  wasn't  much  stuck  on  that  Davidson  per 
son  the  first  time  I  saw  him!"  His  tone  was 
the  tone  of  a,  man  who  seeks  an  argument. 
"He's  a  good  golfer,  I  admit  that,  but  he's  a 
cup  hunter  at  heart,  he's  a  rotten  hard  loser, 
and — well,  he 's  not  on  the  level ! ' ' 

"You've  been  opening  his  mail?"  I  asked. 

"Not  at  all.  Listen!  You  know  the  Santa 
Ynez  Gun  Club?  Well,  he's  joined  that,  among 
other  things.  He's  a  cracking  good  duck  shot. 
I  was  down  there  the  other  night,  and  we  had 
a  little  poker  game." 

"A  little  poker  game?"  said  I. 

"Table  stakes,"  corrected  Waddles.  "Dav 
idson  was  the  big  winner. ' ' 

"You're  not  hinting " 

"Nothing  so  raw  as  that.  Listen!  Joe  Her- 
riman  was  in  the  game,  and  playing  in  the  rot- 
tenest  luck  you  ever  saw.  Good  hands  all  the 
time,  understand,  but  not  quite  good  enough. 
If  he  picked  up  threes  he  was  sure  to  run  into 
a  straight,  and  if  he  made  a  flush  there  was  a 
full  house  out  against  him.  Enough  to  take  the 
heart  out  of  any  man.  Finally  he  picked  up  a 
small  full  before  the  draw — three  treys  and  a 
pair  of  sevens.  Joe  opened  it  light  enough, 
because  he  wanted  everybody  in,  but  the  only 
man  who  stayed  was  Davidson,  who  drew  one 
card.  After  the  draw  Joe  bet  ten  dollars  for  a 
[142] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


feeler,  and  Davidson  came  back  at  him  with  the 
biggest  raise  of  the  night — a  cool  hundred." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "what  was  wrong  with 
that?" 

"Wait.  The  hundred-dollar  bet  started  Joe 
to  thinking.  He  had  been  bumping  into  top 
ping  hands  all  the  evening,  and  Davidson  knew 
it. 

"  'If  I  were  you/  says  Davidson  in  a  nice 
kind  tone  of  voice,  'I  wouldn't  call  that  bet. 
Luck  is  against  you  to-night,  and  I'd  advise 
you,  as  a  friend,  to  lay  that  pat  hand  down  and 
forget  it.' 

"Joe  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time  and  then 
he  looked  at  his  cards ;  you  see  he  'd  been  beaten 
so  often  that  he'd  lost  his  sense  of  values. 

"  'You  think  I  hadn't  better  play  these?' 
asks  Joe. 

"  'I've  given  you  a  tip,'  says  Davidson.  'I 
nate  to  see  a  man  go  up  against  a  sure  thing. ' 

"  'Well,'  says  Joe  at  last,  'I  guess  you've 
done  me  a  favour.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  full 
anyway,'  and  he  spread  his  hand  on  the  table. 
Davidson  didn't  show  his  cards — he  pitched 
'em  into  the  discard  and  raked  in  the  pot — not 
more  than  fifteen  dollars  outside  of  his  hun 
dred." 

"And  what  of  that?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Waddles;  "nothing, 
only  I  was  dealing  the  next  hand,  and  I  ar 
ranged  to  get  a  flash  at  the  five  cards  that  Dav 
idson  tried  to  bury  in  the  middle  of  the  deck." 
[143] 


FOKE! 

"What  did  he  have?" 

Waddles  snorted  angrily. 

"Four  diamonds  and  a  spade!  A  four  flush, 
that's  what  he  had!  The  two  sevens  alone 
would  have  beaten  him!  And  all  that  sympa 
thetic  talk,  that  bum  steer,  just  to  cheat  the  big 
loser  out  of  one  measly  pot!  What  do  you 
think  of  a  fellow  who  'd  do  a  trick  like  that  ? ' ' 

I  told  him  what  I  thought,  and  again  there 
was  silence  and  cheese. 

"Do  you  think  Mary  is  going  to  marry  that 
— that  crook?"  demanded  Waddles. 

"That's  what  they  say." 

More  cheese. 

"I'd  like  to  tell  her,"  said  Waddles  thought 
fully,  "but  it's  just  one  of  the  things  that  isn't 
being  done  this  season.  I'd  like  to  give  her  a 
line  on  that  handsome  scalawag — before  it's 
too  late.  I  can't  waltz  up  to  her  and  tell  her 
that  he's  bogus.  There  must  be  some  other 
way.  But  how?  How?" 

Waddles  sighed  and  attacked  the  cheese 
again.  You'd  hardly  think  that  a  man  could  get 
an  inspiration  out  of  the  kind  of  cheese  that  our 
House  Committee  buys  to  give  away,  but  be 
fore  Waddles  left  the  club  that  evening  he  in 
formed  me  that  a  mixed-foursome  tournament 
wouldn't  be  half  bad — for  a  change. 

' '  You  won 't  get  many  entries, ' '  said  I.  ' l  You 
know  how  the  men  fight  shy  of  any  golf  with 
women  in  it. ' ' 

"  Don 't  want  many. ' ' 

[144] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


"Then  why  a  tournament?"  I  asked.  "The 
entry  fees  won't  pay  for  the  cups." 

"I'm  giving  the  cups,"  said  Waddles,  and 
investigated  the  cheese  bowl  once  more.  "Two 
of  'em.  One  male  cup  and  one  female  cup. 
About  sixteen  dollars  they'll  set  me  back,  but 
I've  an  idea — just  a  sneaking,  lingering  scrap 
of  a  notion — that  I'll  get  my  money's  worth." 

And  he  went  away  mumbling  to  himself  and 
blowing  cracker  crumbs  out  of  his  mouth. 

r? 

Of  course  you  know  the  theory  of  the  mixed 
foursome.  There  are  four  players,  two  men 
and  two  women,  and  each  couple  plays  one  ball. 
It  sounds  very  simple.  Miss  Jones  and  Mr. 
Brown  are  partners.  Miss  Jones  drives,  and  it' 
is  up  to  Mr.  Brown  to  play  the  next  shot  from 
where  the  ball  lies,  after  which  Miss  Jones 
takes  another  pop  at  the  pill,  and  so  on  until  the 
putt  sinks.  Yes,  it  sounds  like  an  innocent 
pastime,  but  of  all  forms  of  golf  the  mixed 
foursome  carries  the  highest  percentage  of  dan-| 
ger  and  explosive  material.  It  is  the  supreme 
test  of  nerves  and  temper,  and  the  trial-by-acid 
of  the  disposition. 

In  our  club  there  is  an  unwritten  law  that  no 
wife  shall  be  partnered  with  her  husband  in  a 
mixed-foursome  match,  because  husbands  and 
wives  have  a  habit  of  saying  exactly  what  they 
think  about  each  other — a  practise  which  should 

[145] 


FOKE ! 

be  confined  to  the  breakfast  table.  There  was 
a  case  once — but  let  us  avoid  scandal.  She  has 
a  new  husband  and  he  has  a  new  wife. 

Waddles'  mixed-foursome  tournament  was 
scheduled  for  a  Thursday,  and  it  was  amazing 
how  many  of  the  male  members  discovered  that 
imperative  business  engagements  would  keep 
them  from  participating  in  the  contest.  The 
women  were  willing  enough  to  play — they  al 
ways  are,  bless  'em! — but  it  was  only  after  a 
vast  amount  of  effort  and  Mexican  diplomacy 
that  Waddles  was  able  to  lead  six  goats  to  the 
slaughter.  Six,  did  I  say?  Five.  Russell  Dav 
idson  needed  no  urging. 

The  man  who  gave  Waddles  the  most  trouble 
was  Bill  Hawley.  Bill  was  polite  about  it,  but 
firm — oh,  very  firm.  He  didn  't  want  any  mixed 
foursomes  in  his  young  life,  thank  you  just  the 
same.  More  than  that,  he  was  busy.  Waddles 
had  to  put  it  on  the  ground  of  a  personal  favour 
before  Bill  showed  the  first  sign  of  wavering. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  club  on  Thursday  noon 
I  found  Waddles  sweating  over  the  handicaps 
for  his  six  couples.  Now  it  is  a  cinch  to  handi 
cap  two  women  or  two  men  if  they  are  to  play 
as  partners,  but  to  handicap  a  woman  and  a 
man  is  quite  another  matter,  and  all  recognised 
rules  go  by  the  board.  I  watched  the  old  boy  for 
some  time,  but  I  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of 
his  system.  Finally  I  asked  him  how  he  handi 
capped  a  mixed  foursome. 

"With  prayer,"  said  Waddles.  "With 
[146] 


A    MIXED    FOUKSOME 


prayer,  and  in  fear  and  trembling.  And  some 
times  that  ain't  any  good." 

I  noted  that  he  had  given  Mary  Brooke  and 
Eussell  Davidson  the  lowest  mark — 10.  Beth 
Rogers  and  Bill  Hawley  were  next  with  16,  and 
the  other  couples  ranged  on  upward  to  the  blue 
sky. 

"Of  course,"  I  suggested,  "the  low  handicap 
is  something  of  a  compliment,  but  haven't  you 
slipped  Davidson  a  bit  the  worst  of  it!" 

"Not  at  all,"  growled  Waddles.  "He  was 
just  crazy  to  get  into  this  thing,  and  he  wouldn't 
have  been  unless  he  figured  to  have  a  cinch ;  con 
sequently,  hence  and  by  reason  of  which  I've 
given  him  a  mark  that'll  make  him  draw  right 
down  to  his  hand.  He  won't  play  any  four- 
flush  here."  "Waddles  then  arranged  the  per 
sonnel  of  the  foursomes,  and  jotted  down  the 
order  in  which  they  would  leave  the  first  tee. 
When  I  saw  which  quartette  would  start  last  I 
offered  another  suggestion. 

"You're  not  helping  Bill's  game  any,"  said  I. 
"You  know  that  he  doesn't  like  Davidson, 
and " 

Waddles  stopped  me  with  his  frozen-faced, 
stuffed-owl  stare.  In  deep  humiliation  I  con 
fess  that  at  the  time  I  attributed  it  to  his  dis 
taste  for  criticism.  I  realise  now  that  it  must 
have  been  amazement  at  my  stupidity. 

"Excuse  me  for  living,"  said  I  with  mock 
humility. 

"There  is  no  excuse,"  said  Waddles  heavily. 
[147] 


FORE! 

Bill  turned  up  on  the  tee  at  the  last  moment, 
and  if  he  didn't  like  the  company  in  which  he 
found  himself  he  masked  his  feelings  very  well. 

"How  do,  Mary?  Beth,  this  is  a  pleasure. 
How  are  you,  Davidson?  Ladies  first,  I  pre 
sume?" 

"Drive,  Miss  Eogers,"  said  Davidson. 

Now  a  fluffy  blonde  is  all  right,  I  suppose,  if 
she  wears  a  hair  net.  Beth  doesn't,  and  her 
golden  aureole  would  make  a  Circassian  woman 
jealous  Still,  there  are  people  who  think  Beth 
is  a  beauty.  I  more  than  half  suspect  that  Beth 
is  one  of  them.  Beth  drove,  and  the  ball 
plumped  into  the  cross  bunker. 

1  i  Oh,  partner ! ' '  she  squealed.  ' '  Can  you  ever 
forgive  me?" 

"That's  all  right,"  Bill  assured  her.  "I've 
often  been  in  there  myself.  Takes  a  good  long 
shot  to  carry  that  bunker. ' ' 

"It's  perfectly  dear  of  you  to  say  so!" 

"Fore!"  said  Mary,  who  was  on  the  tee,  and 
the  conversation  ceased. 

"Better  shoot  to  the  left,"  advised  Eussell, 
"and  go  round  the  end  of  the  bunker." 

Mary  stopped  waggling  her  club  to  look  at 
him.  If  there  is  anything  in  which  the  female 
of  the  golfing  species  takes  sinful  pride  it  is  the 
length  of  her  drive.  She  likes  to  stand  up  on  a 
tee  used  by  the  men  and  smack  the  ball  over  the 
cross  bunker.  She  wouldn't  trade  a  two-hun 
dred-yard  drive  for  twenty  perfect  approach 
shots.  She  may  be  a  wonder  on  the  putting 
[148] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


green,  but  she  offers  herself  no  credit  for  that. 
It  is  the  long  tee  shot  that  takes  her  eye — the 
drive  that  skims  the  bunker  and  goes  on  up  the 
course.  Waddles  says  the  proposition  of  sex 
equality  has  a  bearing  on  the  matter,  but  I 
claim  that  it  is  just  ordinary,  everyday  pride 
in  being  able  to  play  a  man's  game,  man 
fashion. 

Coming  from  a  total  stranger,  that  sugges 
tion  about  driving  to  the  left  would  have  been 
regarded  as  a  deadly  insult ;  coming  from  Bus- 
sell 

1  *  But  I  think  I  can  carry  it, ' '  said  Mary  with 
a  tiny  pout. 

"Change  your  stance  and  drive  to  the  left." 
The  suggestion  had  become  a  command. 

"Fore!"  said  Mary  again — and  whacked  the 
ball  straight  into  the  bunker — straight  into  the 
middle  of  it. 

"Now,  you  see?"  Russell  was  aggravated, 
and  showed  it.  "If  you  had  changed  your 
stance  and  put  that  ball  somewhere  to  the  left 
you  might  have  given  me  a  chance  to  reach  the 
green.  As  it  is— 

He  was  still  enlarging  upon  her  offence  as 
they  moved  away  from  the  tee.  Mary  did  not 
answer  him,  but  she  gave  Beth  a  bright  smile, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "What  care  I?"  Bill  trailed 
along  in  the  rear,  juggling  a  niblick,  his  homely 
face  wiped  clean  of  all  expression. 

There  wasn't  much  to  choose  between  the  sec 
ond  shots — both  lies  were  about  as  bad  as  could 
[1-19] 


FORE! 

be — but  Russell  got  out  safely  and  Bill  dupli 
cated  the  effort. 

Beth  then  elected  to  use  her  brassy,  and  sliced 
the  ball  into  the  long  grass.  Of  course  she  had 
to  wail  about  it. 

"Isn't  that  just  too  maddening!  Partner, 
I'm  so  sorry!" 

"Don't  you  care,"  grinned  Bill.  "That's 
just  my  distance  with  a  mashie.  And  as  for 
long  grass,  I  dote  on  it." 

Mary  was  taking  her  brassy  out  of  the  bag 
when  Russell  butted  in  again — with  excellent 
advice,  I  must  confess. 

"You  can't  reach  the  green  anyway,"  said 
he,  "so  take  an  iron  and  keep  on  the  course." 

There  was  a  warning  flash  in  Mary's  eye 
which  a  wiser  man  would  not  have  ignored. 

"Remember  you've  got  a  partner,"  urged 
Russell.  "Take  an  iron,  there's  a  good  girl." 

* '  Oh,  Russell !    Do  be  still ;  you  fuss  me  so ! " 

"But,  my  dear!  I'm  only  trying  to  help " 

The  swish  of  the  brassy  cut  his  explanation 
neatly  in  two,  and  the  ball  went  sailing  straight 
for  the  distant  flag — a  very  pretty  shot  for  any 
one  to  make. 

' '  Oh,  a  peach !"  cried  Bill.    ' '  A  peach ! ' ' 

"And  you,"  said  Mary,  turning  accusingly  to 
Russell,  "you  wanted  me  to  take  an  iron!" 

"Because  you  can  keep  straighter  with  an 
iron,"  argued  Davidson. 

"Wasn't  that  ball  straight  enough  to  please 
you  ? ' '  asked  Mary  with  just  a  touch  of  malice. 
[150] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


"You  had  luck,"  was  the  ungracious  re 
sponse,  "but  it  doesn't  follow  that  all  your 
wooden-club  shots  will  turn  out  as  well.  The 
theory  of  the  mixed  foursome  is  to  leave  your 
partner  with  a  chance  to  hit  the  ball. ' ' 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Beth.  "Now  you're  mak 
ing  me  feel  like  a  criminal ! ' ' 

"Lady,"  said  Bill,  "if  I  don't  mind,  why 
should  you?" 

"I  think  you're  an  angel !"  gushed  Beth. 

"Yep,"  replied  Bill,  "I  am;  but  don't  tell 
anybody. ' ' 

While  Mary  and  Eussell  were  discussing  the 
theory  of  the  mixed  foursome  old  Bill  made  a 
terrific  mashie  shot  out  of  the  grass,  and  the 
ball  reached  the  edge  of  the  green.  Beth  ap 
plauded  wildly,  Mary  chimed  in,  but  Davidson 
did  not  open  his  mouth.  He  was  irritated,  and 
made  no  secret  of  it,  but  his  irritation  did  not 
keep  him  from  dropping  the  next  shot  on  the 
putting  green. 

Bill  didn't  even  blink  when  Beth  took  her 
putter  and  overran  the  hole  by  ten  feet.  Beth 
said  she  knew  he'd  never,  never  speak  to  her 
again  in  this  world,  and  she  couldn't  blame  him 
if  he  didn't. 

"Well,"  said  Bill  cheerfully,  "you  gave  the 
ball  a  chance,  anyhow.  That's  the  main  thing. 
It's  better  to  be  over  than  short." 

"You're  a  perfect  dear!"  said  Beth.  "I'll 
do  better — see  if  I  don't." 

Mary  then  prepared  to  putt,  Russell's  ap- 
[151] 


FORE! 

proach  having  left  her  twelve  feet  short  of  the 
hole.  "And  be  sure  to  get  it  there,"  cautioned 
her  partner.  "It's  uphill,  you  know.  Allow 
for  it." 

Mary  bit  her  lip  and  hit  the  grass  an  inch 
behind  the  ball.  It  rolled  something  less  than 
four  feet. 

"Hit  the  ball!  Hit  the  ball!"  snapped  Bus- 
sell  angrily.  "What's  the  matter  with  you 
to-day!" 

Mary  apologised  profusely — probably  to 
keep  Kussell  quiet ;  and  she  laughed  too — a  dry, 
hard  little  laugh  that  didn't  have  any  fun  in  it. 
Bill  glared  at  Davidson  for  an  instant,  and  his 
mouth  opened,  but  he  swallowed  whatever  im 
pulse  was  troubling  him,  and  carefully  laid  his 
ball  on  the  lip  of  the  cup  for  a  two-inch  putt 
that  not  even  Beth  could  have  missed.  Eussell 
then  holed  his  long  one,  which  seemed  to  put 
him  in  a  better  humour,  and  the  men  started 
for  the  second  tee.  In  mixed  foursomes  the 
drive  alternates. 

Mary  and  Beth  took  the  short  cut  used  by 
the  caddies,  and  I  followed  them  at  a  discreet 
distance.  Mary  babbled  incessantly  about 
everything  in  the  world  but  golf,  which  was  her 
way  of  conveying  the  impression  that  nothing 
unusual  had  happened;  and  Beth,  womanlike, 
helped  her  out  by  pretending  to  be  deeply  in 
terested  in  what  Mary  was  saying.  And  yet 
they  tell  you  that  if  women  could  learn  to  bluff 
they  would  make  good  poker  players ! 
[152] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


As  I  waited  for  the  men  to  drive  I  thought 
of  the  Mary  Brooke  I  used  to  know — the  leggy 
little  girl  with  her  hair  in  pigtails — and  I  re 
membered  that  in  those  days  she  would  stand 
just  so  much  teasing  from  the  boys,  and  then 
somebody  would  be  slapped — hard.  Had  she 
changed  so  much,  I  wondered? 

On  the  third  hole  Russell  began  nagging 
again,  and  Bill's  face  was  a  study.  For  two 
cents  I  think  he  would  have  choked  him.  Mary 
tried  to  carry  it  off  with  a  smile,  but  it  was  a 
weak  effort.  Nothing  but  absolute  obedience 
and  recognition  of  his  right  to  give  orders 
would  satisfy  Russell. 

"It's  no  use  your  telling  me  now  that  you're 
sorry,"  he  scolded  after  Mary  had  butchered 
a  spoon  shot  on  Number  Three.  "You  won't 
take  advice  when  it's  offered.  I  told  you  not 
to  try  that  confounded  spoon.  A  spoon  is  no 
club  for  a  beginner." 

Mary  gasped. 

"But — I'm  not  a  beginner!  I've  been  play 
ing  ever  and  ever  so  long!  And  I  like  that 
spoon." 


< . ' 


;I  don't  care  what  you  like.    If  we  win  this 
thing  you  must  do  as  I  say. ' ' 

"Oh!  So  that's  it — because  you  want  to 
win?" 

"What  do  you  think  I  entered  for — exercise? 
Nothing  to  beat  but  a  lot  of  dubs — and  you're 
not  even  trying!" 

[153] 


FORE! 

"Bill  is  no  dub."  Mary  flared  up  a  bit  in 
defence  of  her  old  friend. 

"Ho!"  sneered  Russell.  "So  you  call  him 
Bill,  do  you?" 

I  lost  the  thread  of  the  conversation  there  be 
cause  Mary  lowered  her  voice,  but  she  must 
have  told  the  young  man  something  for  the  good 
of  his  soul.  Anyway  he  was  in  a  savage  frame 
of  mind  when  he  stepped  on  the  fourth  tee.  He 
wanted  to  quarrel  with  some  one,  but  it  wouldn't 
have  been  healthy  to  pick  on  old  Bill,  and  Bus- 
sell  probably  realised  it.  Bill  hadn't  spoken 
to  him  since  the  first  hole,  and  to  be  thus  calmly 
ignored  was  fresh  fuel  on  a  smouldering  fire. 

There  was  another  explosion  on  Number 
Four — such  a  loud  one  that  everybody  heard  it. 

"There  you  go  again!"  snarled  Russell.  "I 
give  you  a  perfect  drive — I  leave  you  in  a  posi 
tion  where  all  you  have  to  do  is  pop  a  little 
mashie  over  a  bunker  to  the  green — and  see 
what  a  mess  you've  made  of  it!  I'm  sorry  I 
ever  entered  this  fool  tournament!" 

"I'm  sorry  too,"  said  Mary  quietly,  and 
walked  away  from  him  leaving  him  fuming. 

It  must  have  been  an  uncomfortable  situa 
tion  for  Beth  and  Bill.  They  kept  just  as  far 
away  from  the  other  pair  as  they  could — an 
exhibition  of  delicacy  which  I  am  sure  Mary 
appreciated — and  pretended  not  to  hear  the 
nasty  things  Russell  said,  though  there  were 
times  when  Bill  had  to  hide  his  clenched  fists 
in  his  coat  pockets.  He  wanted  to  hit  some- 
[154] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


thing,  and  hit  it  hard,  so  he  took  it  out  on  the 
ball,  with  excellent  results.  And  no  matter 
what  Beth  did  or  did  not  do  Bill  never  had  any 
thing  for  her  but  a  cheery  grin  and  words  of 
encouragement.  They  got  quite  chummy,  those 
two,  and  once  or  twice  I  thought  I  surprised 
resentment  in  Mary's  eye.  I  may  have  been 
mistaken. 

Eussell  grew  more  rabid  as  the  round  pro 
ceeded,  possibly  because  Mary's  manner  was 
changing.  After  the  seventh  hole,  where  Eus 
sell  said  it  was  a  waste  of  time  to  try  to  teach 
a  woman  anything  about  the  use  of  a  wooden 
club,  Mary  made  not  the  slightest  attempt  to 
placate  him.  She  deliberately  ignored  his  ad 
vice,  and  did  it  smilingly.  She  became  very  gay, 
and  laughed  a  great  deal — too  much,  in  fact — 
and  of  course  her  attitude  did  not  help  matters 
to  any  appreciable  extent.  A  bully  likes  to  have 
a  victim  who  cringes  under  the  lash. 

The  last  nine  was  painful,  even  to  a  specta 
tor,  and  if  Eussell  Davidson  had  been  blessed 
with  the  intelligence  which  God  gives  a  goose 
he  would  have  kept  his  mouth  shut;  but  no,  he 
seemed  determined  to  force  Mary  to  take  some 
notice  of  his  remarks.  The  strangest  thing 
about  it  was  that  some  fairly  go\>d  golf  was 
played  by  all  hands.  Even  fuzzy-headed  little 
Beth  pulled  off  some  pretty  shots,  whereupon 
Bill  cheered  uproariously.  I  think  V-e  found 
relief  in  making  a  noise. 

While  they  were  on  the  seventeenth 
[155] 


FORE! 

spied  old  Waddles  against  the  skyline,  cutting 
off  the  entire  sunset,  and  I  climbed  the  hill  to 
tell  him  the  news.  You  may  believe  it  or  not, 
but  up  to  that  moment  I  had  overlooked  Wad 
dles  entirely.  I  had  been  stupid  enough  to  think 
that  the  show  I  had  been  witnessing  was  an  im 
promptu  affair — a  thing  of  pure  chance,  lack 
ing  a  stage  manager.  Just  as  I  reached  the  top 
of  the  hill,  enlightenment  came  to  me — came  in 
company  with  Mary's  laugh,  rippling  up  from 
below.  At  a  distance  it  sounded  genuine.  A 
shade  of  disappointment  crossed  Waddles'  wide 
and  genial  countenance. 

"So  it  didn't  work,"  said  he.  "It  didn't 
work — and  I  'm  sixteen  dollars  to  the  bad.  Hey ! 
Quit  pounding  me  on  the  back!  Anybody  but 
a  born  ass  would  have  known  the  whole  thing 
was  cooked  up  for  Mary's  benefit — and  you've 
just  tumbled,  eh?  Now  then,  what  has  he 
done!" 

Briefly,  and  in  words  of  one  syllable,  I 
sketched  Eussell's  activities.  Waddles  wagged 
his  head  soberly. 

' '  Treated  her  just  the  same  as  if  he  was  al 
ready  married  to  her,  eh?  A  mixed  foursome  is 
no-o-o  place  for  a  mean  man;  give  him  rope 
enough  and  he'll  hang  himself.  How  do  they 
stand?" 

I  had  not  been  keeping  the  score,  so  we 
walked  down  the  hill  to  the  eighteenth  tee. 

"Pretty  soft  for  you  folks,"  -,aid  Waddles 
'[156] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


with  a  disarming  grin.  "Pretty  soft.  You've 
only  got  to  beat  a  net  98." 

"Zat  so?"  asked  Bill  carelessly,  but  Eussell 
snatched  a  score  card  from  his  pocket.  In 
stantly  his  whole  manner  changed.  The  sullen 
look  left  his  face ;  his  eyes  sparkled ;  he  smiled. 

"We're  here  in  94,"  said  Eussell.  "Ten  off 
of  that — 84.  "Why — it's  a  cinch,  Mary,  a  cinch! 
And  I  thought  you'd  thrown  it  away!" 

"And  you?"  asked  Waddles,  turning  to  Bill. 

"Oh,"  said  Eussell  casually,  "they've  got  a 
gross  of  102.  What 's  their  handicap  ? ' ' 

"Sixteen,"  answered  Waddles. 

"A  net  86."  Eussell  became  thoughtful. 
"H'm-m.  Close  enough  to  be  interesting.  Still, 
they've  got  to  pick  up  three  strokes  on  us  herfc. 
Mary,  all  you've  got  to  do  is  keep  your  second 
shot  out  of  trouble.  Go  straight,  and  I'll  guar 
antee  to  be  on  the  green  in  three. ' ' 

Mary  didn't  say  anything.  She  was  watch 
ing  Waddles — Waddles,  with  his  lip  curled  into 
the  scornful  expression  which  he  reserves  for 
cup  hunters  and  winter  members  who  try  to  hog 
the  course. 

Eussell  drove  and  the  ball  sailed  over  the  di 
rection  post  at  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

' '  That  '11  hold  'em ! "  he  boasted.  ' '  Now  just 
keep  straight,  Mary,  and  we've  got  'em  licked!" 

Bill  followed  with  another  of  his  tremendous 

tee  shots — two  hundred  pounds  of  beef  and  at 

least   a  thousand  pounds  of  contempt  behind 

the  pill — and  away  they  went  up  the  path.    Eus- 

[157] 


FOEE! 

sell  fell  in  beside  Mary,  and  at  every  step  he 
urged  upon  her  the  vital  importance  of  keep 
ing  the  ball  straight.  He  simply  bubbled  and 
fizzed  with  advice,  and  he  smiled  as  he  offered 
it.  I  never  saw  a  man  change  so  in  a  short 
space  of  time. 

"Well,  partner,"  apologised  Beth,  "I'm 
sorry.  If  I'd  only  played  a  tiny  bit  better " 

"Shucks!"  laughed  Bill.  "Don't  you  care. 
What's  a  little  tin  cup  between  friends?" 

"  A  tin  cup ! ' '  growled  Waddles.  ' '  Where  do 
you  get  that  stuff?  Sterling  silver,  you  poor 
cow!" 

Bill's  drive  was  the  long  one,  so  it  was  up  to 
Mary  to  play  first.  Our  last  hole  requires 
fairly  straight  shooting,  because  the  course  is 
paralleled  at  the  right  by  the  steep  slope  of  a 
hill,  and  at  the  bottom  of  that  hill  is  a  creek 
bed,  lined  on  either  side  by  tangled  brush  and 
heavy  willows.  A  ball  sliced  so  as  to  reach  the 
top  of  the  incline  is  almost  certain  to  go  all  the 
way  down.  On  the  other  side  of  the  fair  green 
there  is  a  wide  belt  of  thick  long  grass  in  which 
a  ball  may  easily  be  lost.  No  wonder  Russell 
advised  caution. 

"Take  an  iron,"  said  he,  "and  never  mind 
trying  for  distance.  All  we  need  is  a  six." 

"Boy,"  said  Mary,  addressing  the  caddie, 
"my  brassy,  please." 

"Give  her  an  iron,"  countermanded  Eussell. 
"Mary,  you  must  listen  to  me.  We've  got  this 

thing  won  now " 

[153] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


1 l Fore!"  said  Mary  in  the  tone  of  voice 
which  all  women  possess,  but  most  men  do  not 
hear  it  until  after  they  are  married.  Russell 
fell  back,  stammering  a  remonstrance,  and 
Mary  took  her  practise  swings — four  of  them. 
Then  she  set  herself  as  carefully  as  if  her  en 
tire  golfing  career  depended  on  that  next  shot. 
Her  back  swing  was  deliberate,  the  club  head 
descended  in  a  perfect  arc,  she  kept  her  head 
down,  and  she  followed  through  beautifully — 
but  at  the  click  of  contact  a  strangled  howl  of 
anguish  went  up  from  her  partner.  She  had 
hit  the  ball  with  the  rounded  toe  of  the  club, 
instead  of  the  flat  driving  surface,  and  the  re 
sult  was  a  flight  almost  at  right  angles  with  the 
line  of  the  putting  green — a  wretched  round 
house  slice  ticketed  for  the  bottom  of  the  creek 
bed.  By  running  at  top  speed  Russell  was  able 
to  catch  sight  of  the  ball  as  it  bounded  into  the 
willows.  Mary  looked  at  Waddles  and  smiled — 
the  first  real  smile  of  the  afternoon. 

"Isn't  that  provoking?"  said  she. 

Judging  by  the  language  which  floated  up 
out  of  the  ravine  it  must  have  been  all  of  that. 
Russell  found  the  ball  at  last,  under  the  willows 
and  half  buried  in  the  sand,  and  the  recovery 
which  he  made  was  nothing  short  of  miraculous. 
He  actually  managed  to  clear  the  top  of  the  hill. 
Even  Waddles  applauded  the  shot. 

Beth  took  an  iron  and  played  straight  for  the 
flag.  Russell  picked  the  burs  from  his  flannel 
trousers  and  counted  the  strokes  on  his  fingers. 
[159] 


FOKE! 

"Hawley  will  put  the  next  one  on  the  green," 
said  he,  "and  that  means  a  possible  five — a  net 
of  91.  A  six  will  Avin  for  us ;  and  for  pity's  sake, 
Mary,  for  my  sake,  get  up  there  somewhere  and 
give  me  a  chance  to  lay  the  ball  dead ! ' ' 

Waddles  sniffed. 

"He's  quit  bossing  and  gone  to  begging," 
said  he.     "Well,  if  I  was  Mary  Brooke- 
Holy  mackerel!    She's  surely  not  going  to  take 
another  shot  at  it  with  that  brassy!" 

But  that  was  exactly  what  Mary  was  prepar 
ing  to  do.  Eussell  pleaded,  he  entreated,  and 
at  last  he  raved  wildly;  he  might  have  spared 
his  breath. 

"Cheer  up!"  said  Mary  with  a  chilly  little 
smile.  ' '  I  won 't  slice  this  one.  You  watch  me. ' ' 
She  kept  her  promise — kept  it  with  a  savage 
hook,  which  sailed  clear  across  the  course  and 
into  the  thick  grass.  The  ball  carried  in  the 
rough  seventy-five  yards  from  the  putting 
green,  and  disappeared  without  even  a  bounce. 

"That  one,"  whispered  Waddles,  sighing 
contentedly,  "is  buried  a  foot  deep.  It  begins 
to  look  bad  for  love 's  young  dream.  Bill,  you  're 
away. ' ' 

Kussell,  his  shoulders  hunched  and  his  chin 
buried  in  his  collar,  lingered  long  enough  to 
watch  Bill  put  an  iron  shot  on  the  putting 
green,  ten  feet  from  the  flag.  Then  he  wan 
dered  off  into  the  rough  and  relieved  his  feel 
ings  by  growling  at  the  caddie.  He  did  not  quit, 
however;  the  true  cup  hunter  never  quits.  His 

[160] 


A    MIXED    FOURSOME 


niblick  shot  tore  through  that  tangle  of  thick 
grass,  cut  under  the  ball  and  sent  it  spinning 
high  in  the  air.  It  stopped  rolling  just  short 
of  the  green. 

"We  complimented  him  again,  but  he  was  past 
small  courtesies.  Our  reward  was  a  black 
scowl,  which  we  shared  with  Mary. 

"Lay  it  up!"  said  he  curtly.  "A  seven  may 
tie  'em.  Lay  it  up ! " 

By  this  time  quite  a  gallery  had  gathered  to 
witness  the  finish  of  the  match.  In  absolute 
silence  Mary  drew  her  putter  from  the  bag  and 
studied  the  shot.  It  was  an  absurdly  simple 
one — a  30-foot  approach  over  a  level  green,  and 
all  she  had  to  do  was  to  leave  Russell  a  short 
putt.  Then  if  Beth  missed  her  ten-footer • 

"It's  fast,"  warned  Russell.  "It's  fast,  so 
don't  hit  it  too  hard!" 

I  Even  as  he  spoke  the  putter  clicked  against 
the  ball,  and  instantly  a  gasp  of  dismay  went 
up  from  the  feminine  spectators.  I  was  watch 
ing  Eussell  Davidson,  and  I  can  testify  that  his 
face  turned  a  delicate  shade  of  green.  I  looked 
for  the  ball,  and  was  in  time  to  see  it  skate  mer 
rily  by  the  hole,  "going  a  mile  a  minute,"  as 
Waddles  afterward  expressed  it.  It  rolled  clear 
across  the  putting  green  before  it  stopped. 

Mary  ignored  the  polite  murmur  of  sympathy 
from  the  gallery. 

"Never  up,  never  in,"  said  she  with  a  cheer 
ful  smile.  "Eussell,  I'm  afraid  you're  away." 

Waddles  pinched  my  arm. 
[161] 


FORE  ! 

"Did  you  get  that  stuff?"  he  breathed  into 
my  ear.  ' '  Did  you  get  it  1  She  threw  him  down 
— threw  him  down  cold ! ' ' 

Eussell  seemed  to  realise  this,  but  he  made  a 
noble  effort  to  hole  the  putt.  A  third  miracle 
refused  him,  and  then  Beth  Rogers  put  her  ball 
within  three  inches  of  the  cup. 

"Put  it  down!"  grunted  Russell.  "Sink  it 
— and  let's  get  it  done  with!" 

Bill  tapped  the  ball  into  the  hole,  and  the 
match  was  over. 

"Why— why,"  stuttered  Beth,  "then— we've 
won!" 

At  this  point  the  hand-shaking  began.  I  was 
privileged  to  hear  one  more  exchange  of  re 
marks  between  the  losers  as  they  started  for 
the  clubhouse. 

"We  had  it  won — if  you'd  only  listened  to 
me '  Russell  began. 

"Ah!"  said  Mary,  "you  seem  to  forget  that 
I've  been  listening  to  you  all  the  afternoon — 
listening  and  learning!" 

That  very  same  evening  I  was  sitting  on  my 
front  porch  studying  the  stars  and  meditating 
upon  the  mutability  of  human  relationships. 

A  familiar  runabout  drew  up  at  the  Brooke- 
house,  and  a  young  man  passed  up  the  walk, 
moving  with  a  stiff  and  stately  stride.  In  ex 
actly  twelve  minutes  and  thirty-two  seconds  by 
my  watch  the  young  man  came  out  again, 
bounced  down  the  steps,  jumped  into  his  car, 

[162] 


A    MIXED    FOUESOME 


slammed  the  door  with  a  bang  like  a  pistol  shot, 
and  departed  from  the  neighbourhood  with  a 
grinding  and  a  clashing  of  gears  which  might 
have  been  heard  for  half  a  mile. 

The  red  tail  light  had  scarcely  disappeared 
down  the  street  when  big  Bill  Hawley  lumbered 
across  the  Brooke  lawn,  took  the  front  steps  at 
a  bound  and  rang  the  doorbell. 

Not  being  of  an  inquisitive  and  a  prying  na 
ture,  I  cannot  be  certain  how  long  he  remained, 
but  at  11 :37  I  thought  I  heard  a  door  close,  and 
immediately  afterward  some  one  passed  under 
my  window  whistling  loudly  and  unmelodiously. 
The  selection  of  the  unknown  serenader  was 
that  pretty  little  thing  which  describes  the  end 
of  a  perfect  day. 


[163] 


THE  front  porch  of  onr  clubhouse  is  a 
sort    of    reserved-seat    section    from 
which  we  witness  the  finish  of  all  im 
portant  matches.    The  big  wicker  rock 
ing-chairs    command    the    eighteenth    putting 
green,  as  well  as  the  approach  to  it,  and  when 
nothing  better  offers  we  watch  the  dub  four 
somes  come  straggling  home,  herding  the  little 
white  pills  in  front  of  them. 

We  were  doing  this  only  yesterday — Wad 
dles,  the  Bish  and  yours  truly — and  Waddles 
was  picking  the  winners  and  losers  at  a  distance 
of  three  hundred  yards.  The  old  rascal  is  posi 
tively  uncanny  at  that  sort  of  thing;  in  fact, 
he  rather  prides  himself  on  his  powers  of  ob 
servation.  The  Bish  was  arguing  with  him,  as 
usual.  Of  course  he  isn't  really  a  bishop,  but 
he  has  a  long,  solemn  ecclesiastical  upper  lip 
and  a  heavy  manner  of  trundling  out  the  most 
commonplace  remarks,  so  we  call  him  the  Bish, 
and  there  is  nothing  he  can  do  about  it.  In 
justice  to  all  parties  concerned  I  feel  it  my 
[164] 


;SIMILJA    SIMILIBUS    CURAISTTUB  " 


duty  to  state  that  in  every  other  way  he  is  quite 
unlike  any  bishop  I  have  ever  met. 

"Hello!"  said  Waddles,  sitting  up  straight. 
" Here's  the  Old  Guard— what's  left  of  it,  at 
least." 

Away  down  to  the  right  of  the  sycamore  trees 
a  single  figure  topped  the  brow  of  the  hill  and 
stalked  along  the  sky  line.  There  was  no  mis 
taking  the  long,  thin  legs  or  the  stiff  swing  with 
which  they  moved. 

"Walks  like  a  pair  of  spavined  sugar  tongs," 
was  Waddles'  comment.  "You  can  tell  Pete- 
Miller  as  far  as  you  can  see  him." 

A  second  figure  shot  suddenly  into  view — the 
figure  of  a  small,  nervous  man  who  brandished  a 
golf  club  and  danced  from  sheer  excess  of  emo 
tion,  but  even  at  three  hundred  yards  it  was 
evident  that  there  was  no  joy  in  that  dance. 
Waddles  chuckled. 

"Bet  you  anything  you  like,"  said  he,  "that 
Sam  Totten  sliced  his  tee  shot  into  the  apricot 
orchard.  He's  played  about  four  by  now — and 
they're  cutthroating  it  on  the  drink  hole,  same 
as  they  always  do.  ...  About  time  for  Jumbo 
to  be  putting  in  an  appearance." 

While  he  was  speaking  a  tremendous  form 
loomed  large  on  the  sky  line,  dwarfing  Miller 
and  Totten.  Once  on  level  ground  this  giant 
struck  a  rolling  gait  and  rapidly  overhauled  his 
companions — overhauled  them  in  spite  of  two 
hundred  and  sixty  pounds  and  an  immense. 
[165] 


FORE! 

paunch  which  swayed  from  side  to  side  as  he 
walked. 

''Little  Jumbo/'  said  Waddles,  sinking  back 
in  his  chair.  "Little  Jumbo,  with  his  bag  of 
clubs  tucked  under  his  left  arm — one  driver  and 
all  of  three  irons.  He  carries  that  awful  load 
because  his  doctor  tells  him  he  ought  to  reduce. 
And  he  eats  four  pieces  of  apple  pie  a  la  mode 
with  his  lunch.  But  a  fine  old  fellow  at  that. 
.  .  .  "Well,  I  notice  it's  still  a  threesome." 

" Notice  again,"  said  the  Bish,  pointing  to 
the  left  of  the  sycamores. 

Waddles  looked,  and  rose  from  his  chair 
with  a  grunt  of  amazement.  A  fourth  figure 
came  dragging  itself  up  the  slope  of  the  hill — 
the  particular  portion  of  the  slope  of  the  hill 
where  the  deepest  trouble  is  visited  upon  a 
sliced  second  shot.  Judging  by  his  appearance 
and  manner  this  fourth  golfer  had  been  neck- 
deep  in  grief,  to  say  nothing  of  cactus  and  man- 
zanita.  His  head  was  hanging  low  on  his  breast, 
his  shoulders  were  sagging,  his  feet  were  shuf 
fling  along  the  ground,  and  he  trailed  a  golf 
club  behind  him.  When  a  man  trails  a  club  to 
the  eighteenth  putting  green  it  is  a  sure  sign 
that  all  is  over  but  the  shouting;  and  the  wise 
observer  will  do  his  shouting  in  a  whisper. 
Waddles  sat  down  suddenly. 

"Well,  as  I  live  and  breathe  and  run  the 
Yavapai  Golf  and  Country  Club!"  he  ejacu 
lated,  "there's  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Peacock,  with 
all  his  tail  feathers  pulled  out!  The  deserter 

[166] 


'SIMTLIA    SIMILIBUS    CUKANTUR ' 


lias  joined  the  colours  again,  and  the  Old  Guard 
is  recruited  to  full  war  strength  once  more! 
They've  actually  taken  him  back,  after  the  way 
he 's  acted,  too !  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that, 
eh?" 

1 '  If  you  ask  me, ' '  said  the  Bish  in  his  boom 
ing  chest  notes,  "I'd  say  it  was  just  a  case  of 
similia  similibus  curantur." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort!"  said  Waddles,  bris 
tling  instantly ; ' '  and  besides,  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.  Bish,  when  you  cut  loose  that  belly 
barytone  of  yours  you  always  remind  me  of  an 
empty  barrel  rolling  down  the  cellar  stairs — 
a  lot  of  noise,  but  you  never  spill  anything 
worth  mopping  up.  Come  again  with  that  for 
eign  stuff." 

"Similia  similibus  curantur,"  repeated  the 
Bish.  "That's  Latin." 

Waddles  shook  his  head. 

"In  this  case,"  said  he,  "your  word  will  have 
to  be  sufficient.  While  you  were  hog-wrastling 
Caesar's  Commentaries  I  was  down  in  the  In 
dian  Territory  mastering  the  art  of  driving 
eight  mules  with  a  jerk  line.  I  learned  to  swear 
some  in  Choctaw  and  Cherokee,  but  that  was  as 
far  as  I  got.  Break  that  Latin  up  into  little 
ones.  Slip  it  to  me  in  plain  unvarnished  United 
States." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  Bish,  rolling  a  solemn 
eye  in  my  direction,  "that's  the  same  as  saying 
that  the  hair  of  the  dog  cures  the  bite." 

"The  hair  of  the  dog,"  repeated  Waddles, 
[167] 


FOEE! 

wrinkling  his  brow.    * '  The  hair — of — the — dog. 
.  .  .  H'm-m." 

"Oh,  it's  deep  stuff,"  said  the  Bish.  "Take 
a  good  long  breath  and  dive  for  it." 

1 1  The  only  time  I  ever  heard  that  hair-of-the- 
dog  thing  mentioned,"  said  Waddles,  "was  the 
morning  after  the  night  before.  Peacock 
doesn't  drink." 

The  Bish  made  use  of  a  very  unorthodox  ex- 
pletive. 

"Something  ailed  your  friend  Peacock,"  said 
he,  "and  something  cured  him.  Think  it  over." 

Slowly  the  light  of  intelligence  dawned  in 
Waddles'  eyes.  He  began  to  laugh  inwardly, 
quivering  like  a  mould  of  jelly,  but  the  joke  was 
too  big  to  remain  inside  him.  It  burst  forth, 
first  in  chuckles,  then  in  subdued  guffaws,  and 
finally  in  whoops  and  yells,  and  as  he  whooped 
he  slapped  his  fat  knees  and  wallowed  in  his 
chair. 

"Why,"  he  panted,  "I  saw  it  all  the  time— 
of  course  I  did!  It  was  just  your  fool  way  of 
putting  it !  The  hair  of  the  dog — oh,  say,  that's 
rich!  Make  a  note  of  that  Latin  thing,  Bish. 
I  want  to  spring  it  on  the  Reverend  Father 
Murphy ! ' ' 

1 1  Certainly — but  where  are  you  off  to  in  such 
a  hurry  ? ' ' 

"Me?"  said  Waddles.  "I'm  going  to  do 
something  I've  never  done  before.  I'm  going 
to  raise  a  man's  handicap  from  twelve  to 
eighteen ! ' ' 

[168] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CTJRANTUR' 


He  went  away,  still  laughing,  and  I  looked 
over  toward  the  eighteenth  green.  Pete  Miller 
was  preparing  to  putt,  Sam  Totten  and  Jumbo 
were  standing  side  by  side,  and  in  the  back 
ground  was  Henry  Peacock,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  cap  tilted  down  over  his  eyes  and 
his  lower  lip  entirely  out  of  control.  His  caddie 
was  already  on  the  way  to  the  shed  with  the  bag 
of  clubs. 

"From  twelve  handicap  to  eighteen,"  said  I. 
"That's  more  or  less  of  an  insult.  Think  he'll 
stand  for  it?" 

"He'll  stand  for  anything  right  now,"  said 
the  Bish.  "Look  at  him!  He's  picked  up  his 
ball — on  the  drink  hole  too.  Give  him  the  once 
over — '  mighty  somnambulist  of  a  vanished 
dream!'  " 

n 

As  far  back  as  my  earliest  acquaintance  with 
the  royal  and  ancient  game,  the  Old  Guard  was 
an  institution  of  the  Yavapai  Golf  and  Country 
Club — a  foursome  cemented  by  years  and  usage, 
an  association  recognised  as  permanent,  a  club 
within  the  club — four  eighteen-handicap  men, 
bound  by  the  ties  of  habit  and  hopeless  medioc 
rity.  The  young  golfer  improves  his  game  and 
changes  his  company,  graduating  from  Class  B 
into  Class  A ;  the  middle-aged  golfer  is  past  im 
provement,  so  he  learns  his  limitations,  hunts 
his  level  and  stays  there.  Peter  Miller,  Frank 
Woodson,  Henry  Peacock  and  Sam  Totten  were 
[169] 


FORE  I 

fixtures  in  the  Grand  Amalgamated  Order  of 
Dubs,  and  year  in  and  year  out  their  cards 
would  have  averaged  something  like  ninety- 
seven.  They  were  oftener  over  the  century 
mark  than  below  it. 

Every  golf  club  has  a  few  permanent  four 
somes,  but  most  of  them  are  held  together  by 
common  interests  outside  the  course.  For  in 
stance,  we  have  a  bankers '  foursome,  an  insur 
ance  foursome  and  a  wholesale-grocery  four 
some,  and  the  players  talk  shop  between  holes. 
We  even  have  a  foursome  founded  on  the  own 
ership  of  an  automobile,  a  jitney  alliance,  as 
Sam  Totten  calls  it ;  but  the  Old  Guard  cannot 
be  explained  on  any  such  basis,  nor  was  it  a 
case  of  like  seeking  like. 

Peter  Miller,  senior  member,  is  grey  and 
silent  and  as  stiff  as  his  own  putter  shaft.  He 
is  the  sort  of  man  who  always  lets  the  other 
fellow  do  all  the  talking  and  all  the  laughing, 
while  he  sits  back  with  the  air  of  one  making 
mental  notes  and  reservations.  Peter  is  a  cor 
poration  lawyer  who  seldom  appears  in  court, 
but  he  loads  the  gun  for  the  young  and  eloquent 
pleader  and  tells  him  what  to  aim  at  and  when 
to  pull  the  trigger.  A  solid  citizen,  Peter,  and 
a  useful  one. 

Frank  Woodson,  alias  Jumbo,  big  and  genial 
and  hearty,  has  played  as  Miller's  partner  for 
years  and  years,  and  possesses  every  human 
quality  that  Peter  lacks.  They  say  of  Frank — 
and  I  believe  it — that  in  all  his  life  he  never  hurt 
[170] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CUEANTUE' 


a  friend  or  lost  one.  Frank  is  in  the  stock-rais 
ing  business  at  present,  and  carries  a  side  line 
of  blue-blooded  dogs.  He  once  made  me  a  pres 
ent  of  one,  but  I  am  still  his  friend. 

A  year  ago  I  would  have  set  against  Henry 
Peacock's  name  the  words  "colourless"  and 
"neutral."  A  year  ago  I  thought  I  knew  all 
about  him ;  now  I  am  quite  certain  that  there  is 
something  in  Henry  Peacock's  nature  that  will 
always  baffle  me.  Waddles  swears  that  Peacock 
was  born  with  his  fingers  crossed  and  one  hand 
on  his  pocketbook,  but  that  is  just  his  extrava 
gant  way  of  putting  things.  Henry  has  shown 
me  that  it  is  possible  to  maintain  a  soft,  yield 
ing  exterior,  and  yet  be  hard  as  adamant  inside. 
He  has  also  demonstrated  that  a  meek  man's 
pride  is  a  thing  not  lightly  dismissed.  I  have 
revised  all  my  estimates  of  H.  Peacock,  retired 
capitalist. 

Last  of  all  we  have  Samuel  Totten,  youngest 
of  the  Old  Guard  by  at  least  a  dozen  years. 
How  he  ever  laughed  his  way  into  that  close  cor 
poration  is  a  mystery,  but  somewhere  in  his 
twenties  he  managed  it.  Sam  is  a  human  fire 
brand,  a  dash  of  tabasco,  a  rough  comedian  and 
catch-as-catch-can  joker.  Years  have  not  tamed 
him,  but  they  have  brought  him  into  prominence 
as  a  consulting  specialist  in  real  estate  and  in 
vestments.  Those  who  should  know  tell  that 
Sam  Totten  can  park  his  itching  feet  under  an 
office  desk  and  keep  them  there  long  enough  to 
swing  a  big  deal,  but  I  prefer  to  think  of  him 
[17.1] 


FOKE! 

as  the  rather  florid  young  man  who  insists  on 
joining  the  hired  orchestra  and  playing  snare- 
drum  solos  during  the  country-club  dances, 
much  to  the  discomfiture  of  the  gentleman  who 
owns  the  drum.  You  will  never  realise  how 
poor  Poor  Butterfly  is  until  you  hear  Sam  Tot- 
ten  execute  that  melody  upon  his  favourite 
instrument. 

These  four  men  met  twice  a  week,  rain  or 
shine,  without  the  formality  of  telephoning  in 
advance.  Each  one  knew  that,  barring  flood, 
fire  or  act  of  God,  the  others  would  be  on  hand, 
fed,  clothed  and  ready  to  leave  the  first  tee  at 
one-fifteen  p.  M.  If  one  of  the  quartette  hap 
pened  to  be  sick  or  out  of  town  the  others  would 
pick  up  a  fourth  man  and  take  him  round  the 
course  with  them,  but  that  fourth  man  recog 
nised  the  fact  that  he  was  not  of  the  Old  Guard, 
but  merely  with  it  temporarily.  He  was  never 
encouraged  to  believe  that  he  had  found  a  home. 

Imagine  then,  this  permanent  foursome,  this 
coalition  of  fifteen  years'  standing,  this  sacred 
institution,  smitten  and  smashed  by  a  bolt  from 
the  blue.  And  like  most  bolts  from  the  blue  it 
picked  out  the  most  unlikely  target.  Henry 
Peacock  won  the  Brutus  B.  Hemmingway  Cup ! 

Now  as  golf  cups  go  the  Hemmingway  Cup 
is  quite  an  affair — eighteen  inches  from  pedes 
tal  to  brim,  solid  silver  of  course,  engraved  and 
scrolled  and  chased  within  an  inch  of  its  life. 
Mr.  Hemmingway  puts  up  a  new  cup  each  year, 
the  conditions  of  play  being  that  the  trophy 
[172] 


SIMILIA   SIMILIBUS    CUEANTUR 


shall  go  to  the  man  making  the  best  net  score. 
A  Class-B  man  usually  wins  it  with  a  handicap 
of  eighteen  or  twenty-four  and  the  Class-A  men 
slightingly  refer  to  Mr.  Heminingway 's  trophy 
as  "the  dub  cup."  Sour  grapes,  of  course. 

I  remember  Mr.  Peacock's  victory  very  well; 
in  fact,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  On  that  particu 
lar  afternoon  my  net  score  was  seventy-one, 
five  strokes  under  our  par,  and  for  half  an  hour 
or  so  I  thought  the  Hemmingway  Cup  was  going 
home  with  me.  I  recall  trying  to  decide  whether 
it  would  show  to  best  advantage  on  the  mantel 
in  the  living  room  or  on  the  sideboard  in  the 
dining  room.  Numbers  of  disappointed  con 
testants  offered  me  their  congratulations — 
they  said  it  was  about  time  I  won  something, 
even  with  the  assistance  of  a  fat  handicap — 
and  for  half  an  hour  I  endeavoured  to  bear  my 
honours  with  becoming  modesty.  Waddles 
brought  the  Hemmingway  Cup  over  and  put  it 
in  the  middle  of  the  table. 

"  'S  all  yours,  I  guess, "  said  he.  "  Nobody 
out  now  but  the  Old  Guard.  Not  one  of  them 
could  make  an  88  with  a  lead  pencil,  and  that's 
what  they've  got  to  do  to  beat  you.  Might  as 
will  begin  to  buy." 

I  began  to  buy,  and  while  I  was  signing  the 
first  batch  of  tags  the  Old  Guard  came  march 
ing  in  from  the  eighteenth  green.  Sam  Totten 
was  in  the  lead,  walking  backward  and  twirling 
his  putter  as  a  drum  major  twirls  a  baton. 
Frank  Woodson  and  Peter  Miller  were  acting 
[173] 


FORE! 

as  an  escort  of  honour  for  Henry  Peacock,  and 
I  began  to  have  misgivings.  I  also  ceased  sign 
ing  tags. 

The  door  of  the  lounging  room  crashed  open 
and  Sam  Totten  entered,  dragging  Henry  Pea 
cock  behind  him.  Miller  and  Woodson  brought 
up  the  rear. 

"Hey,  Waddles!"  shouted  Sam.  "What  do 
you  think  of  this  old  stiff?  He  shot  an  eighty- 
two  ;  he  did,  on  the  level ! ' ' 

"An  eighty-two?"  said  I.  "Then  his  net 
was " 

"Sixty-four,"  murmured  Mr.  Peacock  with 
an  apologetic  smile.  "Yes — ah — sixty-four." 

"The  suffering  Moses!"  gulped  Waddles. 
"How  did  he  do  it?" 

' '  He  played  golf,  "said  Peter  Miller.  « '  Kept 
his  tee  shots  straight,  and  holed  some  long 
putts." 

"Best  round  he  ever  shot  in  his  life!"  Wood- 
son  chimed  in.  "Won  three  balls  from  me,  but 
it's  a  pleasure  to  pay  'em,  Henry,  on  account 
of  your  winning  the  cup !  Who  'd  have  thought 
it?" 

"And  we're  proud  of  him!"  cried  Sam  Tot- 
ten.  "'I'm  proud  of  him!  He's  my  partner! 
An  eighty-two — think  of  an  old  stiff  like  him 
shooting  an  eighty-two !  One  foot  in  the  grave, 
and  he  wins  a  cup  sixteen  hands  high  and  big  as 
a  horse !  Cheers,  gentlemen,  cheers  for  the  Old 
Guard !  It  dies,  but  it  never  surrenders ! ' ' 

"Here,"  said  I,  thrusting  the  rest  of  the  tags 
[174] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CUEANTUB 


into  Henry's  limp  and  unresisting  hand.    "You 
sign  these." 

"But,"  said  he,  "I — I  didn't  order  anything, 
and  I  won  the  drink  hole." 

"You  won  the  cup  too,  didn't  you?"  de 
manded  "Waddles.  '  *  Winner  always  buys — buys 
for  everybody.  Boy,  bring  the  rest  of  those 
tags  back  here  and  let  Mr.  Peacock  sign  them 
too.  Winner  always  buys,  Henry.  That's  a 
club  rule." 

Mr.  Peacock  sat  down  at  the  table,  put  on  his 
glasses  and  audited  those  tags  to  the  last  nickel. 
After  he  had  signed  them  all  he  picked  up  the 
Hemmingway  Cup  and  examined  it  from  top  to 
bottom. 

"Can  you  beat  that!"  whispered  Waddles  in 
my  ear.  ' '  The  old  piker  is  trying  to  figure,  with 
silver  as  low  as  it  is,  whether  he's  ahead  or  be 
hind  on  the  deal!" 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Sam  Totten,  standing  on 
his  chair  and  waving  his  arms,  "here's  to  the 
Old  Guard !  We  won  a  cup  at  last !  Old  Henry 
won  it ;  but  it's  all  in  the  family,  ain't  it,  Henry? 
Betcher  life  it  is !  The  Old  Guard — drink  her 
up,  and  drink  her  down ! ' ' 

Frank  Woodson  dropped  his  big  ham  of  a 
hand  on  Henry  Peacock's  shoulder. 

"I  couldn't  have  been  half  so  tickled  if  I'd 
won  it  myself!"  said  he.  "You  see,  you  never 
won  a  cup  before.  I  won  one  once — runner-up 
in  the  fifth  flight  over  at  San  Gabriel.  Nice  cup, 
silver  and  all  that,  but  you've  got  to  have  a  mag- 
[175] 


FORE! 

nifying  glass  to  see  it.  Now  this  Hemmingway 
Cup,  Henry,  is  a  regular  old  he  cup.  You  can't 
put  it  where  your  visitors  won't  find  it.  You 
can  be  proud  of  it,  old  son,  and  we're  proud  of 
you.'* 

''Same  here,"  said  Peter  Miller,  and  his  face 
twisted  into  something  remotely  resembling  a 
smile.  "Did  my  heart  good  to  see  the  old  boy 
laying  those  tee  shots  out  in  the  middle  every 
time.  We're  all  proud  of  you,  Henry." 

"Proud!"  exclaimed  Sam  Totten.  "I'm  so 
proud  I'm  all  out  of  shape!" 

Peacock  didn't  have  much  to  say.  He  sat 
there  smiling  his  tight  little  smile  and  looking 
at  the  silver  cup.  I  believe  that  even  then  the 
idea  of  desertion  had  entered  into  his  little 
two-by-four  soul.  There  was  a  thoughtful  look 
in  his  eyes,  and  he  didn't  respond  to  Totten's 
hilarity  with  any  great  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

"What  was  it  the  admiral  said  at  Santiago?" 
asked  Sam.  "  'There's  glory  enough  for  us 
all!'  Wasn't  that  it?" 

"Mph!"  grunted  Waddles.  "Since  you're 
getting  into  famous  remarks  of  history,  what 
was  it  the  governor  of  North  Carolina " 

"I  think  I'll  take  my  bath  now,"  interrupted 
Henry  Peacock,  rising. 

"You  will  not!"  cried  Sam  Totten.  "I'm 
going  to  buy.  Jumbo  here  is  going  to  buy. 
Pete  is  going  to  buy.  Where  do  you  get  that 
bath  stuff?  We  don't  win  a  cup  every  day, 
Henry.  Sit  down ! ' ' 

[176] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CURANTUR' 


An  hour  later  Waddles  emerged  from  the 
shower  room,  looking  very  much  like  an  over 
grown  cupid  in  his  abbreviated  underwear. 
Henry  Peacock  had  been  waiting  for  him.  The 
Hemmingway  Cup,  in  its  green  felt  bag,  dan 
gled  from  his  wrist.  My  locker  is  directly 
across  the  alley  from  Waddles',  and  I  over 
heard  the  entire  conversation. 

"I — I  just  wanted  to  say,"  began  Henry, 
"that  any  cut  you  might  want  to  make  in  my 
handicap  will  be  all  right  with  me." 

Waddles  growled.  He  has  never  yet  found 
it  necessary  to  consult  a  victim  before  operating 
on  his  handicap.  There  was  a  silence  and  then 
Henry  tried  again. 

"I  really  think  my  handicap  ought  to  be  cut," 
said  he. 

"Oh,  it'll  be  cut  all  right!"  said  Waddles 
cheerfully.  i  '  Don 't  you  worry  about  that.  Any 
old  stiff  who  brings  in  a  net  of  sixty-four  has  a 
cut  coming  to  him.  Leave  it  to  me ! " 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  "I  just  wanted  you  to 
know  how  I  felt  about  it.  I — I  want  to  be  quite 
frank  with  you.  Of  course,  I  probably  won't 
shoot  an  eighty-two  every  time  out" — here 
Waddles  gasped  and  plumped  down  on  the 
bench  outside  his  locker — "but  when  a  man 
brings  in  a  net  score  that  is  twelve  strokes  un 
der  the  par  of  the  course  I  think  some  notice 
should  be  taken  of  it." 

4 '  Oh,  you  do,  do  you  1  Listen,  Henry !  Since 
[177] 


we're  going  to  be  frank  with  each  other,  what 
do  you  think  your  new  handicap  ought  to  be  I " 
Waddles  was  stringing  him  of  course,  but 
Henry  didn't  realise  it. 

"I  think  ten  would  be  about  right,"  said  he 
calmly. 

"Ten!"  barked  Waddles.  "The  suffering 
Moses!  Ten!  Henry,  are  you  sure  you're 
quite  well — not  overexcited  or  anything?" 

"All  I  had  was  four  lemonades." 

"Ah!"  said  Waddles.  "Four  lemonades — 
and  Sam  Totten  winked  at  the  bar  boy  every 
time.  Why,  if  I  cut  you  from  eighteen  to  ten 
that'll  put  you  in  Class  A!" 

"I  think  that's  where  I  belong." 

"I'll  have  to  talk  with  the  head  bar  boy," 
said  Waddles.  "He  shouldn't  be  so  reckless 
with  that  gin.  It  costs  money  these  days.  Lis 
ten  to  me,  Henry.  Take  hold  of  your  head  with 
both  hands  and  try  to  get  what  I  say.  You 
went  out  to-day  and  shot  your  fool  head  off. 
You  played  the  best  round  of  golf  in  your  long 
and  sinful  career.  You  made  an  eighty-two. 
You'll  never  make  an  eighty-two  again  as  long 
as  you  live.  It  would  be  a  crime  to  handicap 
you  on  to-day's  game,  Henry.  It  would  be  man 
slaughter  to  put  you  in  Class  A.  You  don't 
belong  there.  If  you  want  me  to  cut  you  I'll 
put  you  down  to  sixteen,  and  even  then  you 
won't  play  to  that  mark  unless  you're  lucky." 

"I  think  I  belong  at  ten,"  said  Peacock.  I 
[178] 


'SIMTLIA    SIMILJBUS    CURANTUR' 


began  to  appreciate  that  line  about  the  terrible 
insistence  of  the  meek. 

"Get  out  of  here!"  ordered  Waddles,  sud 
denly  losing  his  patience.  * '  Go  home  and  pray 
for  humility,  Henry.  Lay  off  the  lemonade 
when  Sam  Totten  is  in  the  crowd.  Lemonade  is 
bad  for  you.  It  curdles  the  intelligence  and 
warps  the  reasoning  faculties.  Shoo !  Scat ! 
Mush  on!  Vamose!  Beat  it!  Hurry  up! 
Wiki-wild!  Chop-chop!  Schnell!" 

"Then  you  won't  cut  me  to  ten?" 

"I— will— not!" 

Henry  sighed  and  started  for  the  door.  He 
turned  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 

1  i  I  still  think  I  belong  there, ' '  was  his  parting 
shot. 

"Might  as  well  settle  this  thing  right  now," 
said  Waddles  to  himself.  Then  he  lifted  up  his 
voice  in  a  howl  that  made  the  electric  lights 
quiver.  1 1  Send  Tom  in  here ! ' ' 

The  head  bar  boy  appeared,  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear. 

"Tom,"  said  Waddles,  "don't  you  know  you 
oughtn't  to  slip  a  shot  of  gin  into  an  old  man's 
lemonade?" 

"Ain't  nobody  gits  gin  in  his  lemonade,  suh, 
'less  he  awdeh  it  thataway. ' ' 

"What  did  Mr.  Peacock  have?" 

"Plain  lemonade,  suh." 

"No  kick  in  it  at  all?" 

* '  Not  even  a  wiggle,  suh. ' ' 

"That'll  do,"  said  Waddles;  and  Tom  went 
[179] 


FORE 


back  to  his  work.  There  was  a  long  silence. 
By  his  laboured  breathing  I  judged  that  Wad 
dles  was  lacing  his  shoes.  Once  more  he  thought 
aloud. 

"Tom  wouldn't  lie  to  me,  so  it  wasn't  gin. 
Now,  I  wonder.  ...  I  wonder  if  that  old  coot 
has  got  what  they  call  'delusions  of  gran 
deur'?" 


in 


On  the  Monday  following  the  contest  for  the 
Hemmingway  Cup  I  met  the  Bish  at  the  coun 
try  club.  "We  arrived  there  between  nine  and 
ten  in  the  morning,  and  the  first  man  we  saw 
was  Mr.  Henry  Peacock.  He  was  out  on  the 
eighteenth  fairway  practising  approach  shots, 
and  the  putting  green  was  speckled  with  balls. 

' '  Hello ! ' '  said  the  Bish.  ' '  Look  who 's  here ! 
Practising  too.  You  don't  suppose  that  old 
chump  is  going  to  try  to  make  a  golfer  of  him 
self,  this  late  along?" 

I  said  that  it  appeared  that  way. 

"One-club  practise  is  all  right  for  a  begin 
ner,"  said  the  Bish,  "because  he  hasn't  any  bad 
habits  to  overcome,  but  this  poor  nut  didn't  take 
up  the  game  till  he  was  forty,  and  when  he 
learned  it  he  learned  it  all  wrong.  He  can  prac 
tise  till  he's  black  in  the  face  and  it  won't  do 
him  any  good.  Don't  you  think  we'd  better 
page  Doc  Osier  and  have  him  put  out  of  his 
misery?" 

[180] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CURANTUB' 


It  was  then  that  I  told  the  Bish  about  Henry's 
desire  to  break  into  Class  A,  and  he  whistled. 

"It  got  him  quick,  didn't  it!"  said  he.  "Well, 
there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool." 

Half  an  hour  later  this  was  made  quite  plain 
to  us.  Henry  came  into  the  clubhouse  to  get  a 
drink  of  water.  Now  I  did  not  know  him  very 
well,  and  the  Bish  had  only  a  nodding  acquain 
tance  with  him,  but  he  greeted  us  as  long-lost 
brothers.  I  did  not  understand  his  cordiality 
at  first,  but  the  reason  for  it  was  soon  apparent. 
Henry  wanted  to  know  whether  we  had  a  match 
up  for  the  afternoon. 

"Sorry,"  lied  the  Bish;  "we're  already 
hooked  up  with  a  foursome." 

Henry  said  he  was  sorry  too;  and  moreover 
he  looked  it. 

"I  was  thinking  I  might  get  in  with  you," 
said  he.  "What  I  need  is  the — er — opportunity 
to  study  better  players — er — get  some  real 
competition.  Somebody  that  will  make  me  do 
my  best  all  the  time.  Don't  you  think  that  will 
help  my  game  ? ' ' 

"Doubtless,"  said  the  Bish  in  his  deepest 
tone;  "but  at  the  same  time  you  shouldn't  get 
too  far  out  of  your  class.  There  is  a  difference 
between  being  spurred  on  by  competition  and 
being  discouraged  by  it." 

"I  shot  an  eighty-two  last  Saturday,"  said 
Henry  quickly. 

"So  I  hear.     So  I  hear.    And  how  many 
brassy  shots  did  you  hole  out?" 
[181] 


FORE! 

"Not  one.  It — it  wasn't  luck.  It  was  good 
steady  play." 

"He  admits  it,"  murmured  the  Bish,  but 
Henry  didn't  even  hear  him. 

"Good  steady  play,"  he  repeated.  ""What 
a  man  does  once  he  can  do  again.  Eighty-two. 
Six  strokes  above  the  par  of  the  course.  My 
net  was  twelve  strokes  below  it — due,  of  course, 
to  a  ridiculously  high  handicap :  I — I  intend  to 
have  that  altered.  Eighty-two  is  Class-A  golf." 

"Or  an  accident,"  said  the  Bish  rather  coldly. 

"Steady  golf  is  never  an  accident,"  argued 
Henry.  "I  have  thought  it  all  out  and  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  what  I  need  now  is  keener 
competition — er — better  men  to  play  with; 
and" — this  with  a  trace  of  stubbornness  in  his 
tone — "I  mean  to  find  them." 

The  Bish  kicked  my  foot  under  the  table. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  he,  "but — how 
about  the  Old  Guard?" 

The  wretched  renegade  squirmed  in  his  chair. 

"That,"  said  he,  "will  adjust  itself  later." 

"You  mean  that  you'll  break  away?" 

"I  didn't  say  so,  did  I?" 

"No,  but  you've  been  talking  about  keener 
competition. ' ' 

Henry  was  not  pleased  with  the  turn  the  con 
versation  had  taken.  He  rose  to  go. 

"  Woodson  and  Totten  and  Miller  are  fine  fel 
lows,"  said  he.  "Personally  I  hold  them  in  the 
highest  esteem,  but  you  must  admit  that  they 
are  poor  golfers.  Not  one  of  them  ever  shot  an 
[182] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CUEANTUR' 


eighty-five.  I — I  have  my  own  game  to  consider. 
.  .  .  You're  quite  sure  you  won't  have  a  va 
cancy  this  afternoon1?" 

"Oh,  quite,"  said  the  Bish,  and  Henry  tod 
dled  back  to  his  practise.  It  was  well  that  he 
left  us,  for  the  Bish  was  on  the  point  of  an 
explosion. 

"Well!"  said  he.  "The  conceited,  ungrate 
ful  old  scoundrel!  Got  his  own  game  to  con 
sider — did  you  hear  that?  Just  one  fair-to- 
middling  score  in  his  whole  worthless  life,  and 
now  he's  too  swelled  up  to  associate  with  the 
fellows  who  have  played  with  him  all  these 
years,  stood  for  his  little  meannesses,  covered 
up  his  faults  and  overlooked  his  shortcomings ! 
Keener  competition,  eh?  Pah!  Would  you 
play  with  him?" 

"Not  on  a  bet!"  said  I. 

On  the  following  Wednesday  the  Old  Guard 
counted  noses  and  found  itself  short  the  star 
member.  Lacking  the  courage  or  the  decency 
to  inform  his  friends  of  his  change  of  pro 
gramme,  Peacock  took  the  line  of  least  resist 
ance  and  elected  to  escape  them  by  a  late  ar 
rival.  Sam  Totten  made  several  flying  trips 
into  the  locker  room  in  search  of  his  partner, 
but  he  gave  up  at  last,  and  at  one-thirty  the  Old 
Guard  drove  off,  a  threesome. 

At  one-thirty-two  Henry  sneaked  into  the 
clubhouse  and  announced  that  he  was  without  a 
match.  The  news  did  not  create  any  great 
furore.  All  the  Class-A  foursomes  were  made 

[183] 


FORE! 

up,  and,  to  make  matters  worse,  the  Bish  had 
been  doing  a  little  quiet  but  effective  mission 
ary  work.  Henry's  advances  brought  him 
smack  up  against  a  stone  wall  of  polite  but 
definite  refusal.  The  cup  winner  was  left  out 
in  the  cold. 

He  finally  picked  up  Uncle  George  Sawyer,  it 
being  a  matter  of  Uncle  George  or  nobody. 
Uncle  George  is  a  twenty-four-handicap  man, 
but  only  when  he  is  at  the  very  top  of  his  game, 
and  he  is  deaf  as  a  post,  left  handed  and  a  con 
firmed  slicer.  In  addition  to  these  misfortunes 
Uncle  George  is  blessed  with  the  disposition  of 
a  dyspeptic  wildcat,  and  I  imagine  that  Mr. 
Peacock  did  not  have  a  pleasant  afternoon.  The 
Old  Guard  pounced  on  him  when  he  came  into 
the  lounging  room  at  five  o  'clock. 

"Hey!  Why  didn't  you  say  that  you'd  be 
late?"  demanded  Sam  Totten.  "We'd  have 
waited  for  you." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Henry— and  he 
looked  like  a  sheep-killing  dog  surprised  with 
the  wool  in  his  teeth — "I'll  tell  you.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  is  I — I  didn't  know  just  how  late 
I  was  going  to  be,  and  I  didn't  think  it  would 
be  fair  to  you " 

"Apology's  accepted,"  said  Jumbo,  "but 
don't  let  it  happen  again.  And  you  went  and 
picked  on  poor  old  Sawyer  too.  You — a  cup 
winner — picking  on  a  cripple  like  that !  Henry, 
where  do  you  expect  to  go  when  you  die?  Ain't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself?" 
[184] 


'SIMILIA   SIMILIBUS    CURANTUR 


"We've  got  it  all  fixed  up  to  play  at  San 
Gabriel  next  Saturday,"  put  in  Peter  Miller. 
"You '11  go,  of  course?" 

"I'll  ring  up  and  let  you  know,"  said  Henry, 
and  slipped  away  to  the  shower  room. 

I  do  not  know  what  lies  he  told  over  the  tele 
phone  or  how  he  managed  to  squirm  out  of  the 
San  Gabriel  trip,  but  I  do  know  that  he  turned 
up  at  the  country  club  at  eleven  o'clock  on  Sat 
urday  morning  and  spent  two  hours  pan 
handling  everybody  in  sight  for  a  match.  The 
keen  competition  fought  very  shy  of  Mr.  Pea 
cock,  thanks  to  the  Bish  and  his  whispering 
campaign.  Everybody  was  scrupulously  polite 
to  him — some  even  expressed  regret — but  no 
body  seemed  to  need  a  fourth  man. 

"They're  just  as  glad  to  see  him  as  if  he  had 
smallpox,"  grinned  the  Bish.  "Well,  I've  got 
a  heart  that  beats  for  my  fellow  man.  I'd  hate 
to  see  Peacock  left  without  any  kind  of  a  match. 
Old  Sawyer  is  asleep  on  the  front  porch.  I'll 
go  and  tell  him  that  Peacock  is  here  looking  for 
him." 

It  has  been  years  since  any  one  sought  Uncle 
George's  company,  and  the  old  chap  was  de 
lighted,  but  if  Henry  was  pleased  he  managed 
to  conceal  his  happiness.  I  learned  later  that 
their  twosome  wound  up  in  a  jawing  match  on 
the  sixteenth  green,  in  which  Uncle  George  had 
all  the  better  of  it  because  he  couldn't  hear  any 
of  the  things  that  Henry  called  him.  They  came 
to  grief  over  a  question  of  the  rules;  and 

[185] 


FORE! 

Waddles,  when  appealed  to,  decided  that  they 
were  both  wrong — and  a  couple  of  fussy  old 
hens,  to  boot. 

"Just  what  I  told  him!"  mumbled  Uncle 
George,  who  hadn't  heard  a  word  that  Waddles 
said.  "The  ball  nearest  the  hole " 

"No  such  thing!"  interrupted  Henry,  and 
they  went  away  still  squabbling.  Waddles  shook 
his  head. 

"He's  a  fine  twelve-handicap  man!"  said  he 
with  scorn.  "Doesn't  even  know  the  rules  of 
the  game ! ' ' 

"Twelve!"  said  I.    "You  don't  mean " 

1 '  Yes,  I  cut  him  to  twelve.  Ever  since  he  won 
that  cup  he's  been  hounding  me — by  letter,  by 
telephone  and  by  word  of  mouth.  He 's  like  Tom 
Sawyer's  cat  and  the  pain  killer.  He  kept  ask 
ing  for  it,  and  now  he's  got  it.  He  thinks  a  low 
handicap  will  make  him  play  better — stubborn 
old  fool!" 

"And  that's  not  all,"  said  the  Bish.  "He's 
left  the  Old  Guard,  flat." 

"No!" 

"He  has,  I  tell  you." 

1 '  I  don 't  believe  it, ' '  said  Waddles.  ' '  He  may 
be  all  kinds  of  a  chump,  but  he  wouldn't  do 
that." 

The  Old  Guard  didn't  believe  it  either.  It 
must  have  been  all  of  three  weeks  before  Totten 
and  Woods  on  and  Miller  realised  that  Peacock 
was  a  deserter,  that  he  was  deliberately  avoid 
ing  them.  At  first  they  accepted  his  lame  ex- 
[186] 


'SIMILIA   SIMILIBUS    CURANTUB 


cuses  at  face  value,  and  when  doubt  began  to 
creep  in  they  said  the  thing  couldn't  be  possible. 
One  day  they  waited  for  him  and  brought  mat 
ters  to  a  showdown.  Henry  wriggled  and 
twisted  and  squirmed,  and  finally  blurted  out 
that  he  had  made  other  arrangements.  That 
settled  it,  of  course ;  and  then  instead  of  being 
angry  or  disgusted  with  Henry  they  seemed  to 
pity  him,  and  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  I 
am  quite  certain  that  not  one  of  them  ever  took 
the  renegade  to  task  for  his  conduct.  Worse 
than  everything  else  they  actually  missed  him. 
It  was  Frank  Woodson,  acting  as  spokesman  for 
the  others,  who  explained  the  situation  to  me. 

4 'Oh,  about  Henry?  Well,  it's  this  way: 
We've  all  got  our  little  peculiarities — Lord 
knows  I've  a  few  of  my  own.  I  never  would 
have  thought  this  could  happen,  but  it  just  goes 
to  show  how  a  man  gets  a  notion  crossways  in 
his  head  and  jams  up  the  machinery.  Henry  is 
all  right  at  heart.  His  head  is  a  little  out  of 
line  at  present,  but  his  heart  is  0.  K.  You  see, 
he  won  that  cup  and  it  gave  him  a  wrong  idea. 
He  really  thinks  that  under  certain  conditions 
he  can  play  back  to  that  eighty-two.  I  know  he 
can't.  We  all  know  he  can't;  but  let  him  go 
ahead  and  try  it.  He'll  get  over  this  little  spell 
and  be  a  good  dog  again." 

The  Bish,  who  was  present,  suggested  that  the 
Old  Guard  should  elect  a  new  member  and  for 
get  the  deserter. 

;No-o,"    said    Frank    thoughtfully;    "that 
[187] 


i  i 


FORE! 

wouldn't  be  right.  We've  talked  it  over,  the 
three  of  us,  and  we'll  keep  his  place  open  for 
him.  Confound  it,  man !  You  don't  realise  that 
we've  been  playing  together  for  more  than  fif 
teen  years !  We  understand  each  other,  and  we 
used  to  have  more  fun  than  anybody,  just  dub 
bing  round  the  course.  The  game  doesn't  seem 
quite  the  same,  with  Henry  out  of  it ;  and  I  don 't 
think  he's  having  a  very  good  time,  hanging  on 
the  fringe  of  Class  A  and  trying  to  butt  in 
where  he  isn't  wanted.  No;  he'll  come  back 
pretty  soon,  and  everything  will  be  just  the 
same  again.  We've  all  got  our  little  peculiari 
ties,  Bish.  You've  got  some.  I've  got  some. 
The  best  thing  is  to  be  charitable  and  overlook 
as  much  as  you  can,  hoping  that  folks  will  treat 
you  the  same  way." 

"And  that,"  said  Bish  after  Jumbo  had  gone 
away,  "proves  the  statement  that  a  friend  is  'a 
fellow  who  knows  all  about  you  and  still  stands 
for  you.'  How  long  do  you  suppose  they'll 
have  to  wait  before  that  old  imbecile  regains  his 
senses?" 

They  waited  for  at  least  five  months,  during 
which  time  H.  Peacock,  Esquire,  enrolled  him 
self  as  the  prize  pest  of  the  golfing  world.  The 
Class-B  men,  resenting  his  treatment  of  the  Old 
Guard,  were  determined  not  to  let  him  break 
into  one  of  their  foursomes,  and  the  Class-A 
men  wouldn't  have  him  at  any  price.  The  game 
of  pussy-wants-a-corner  is  all  right  for  children, 
but  Henry,  playing  it  alone,  did  not  seem  to  find 

[188] 


'SIMILIA   SIMILIBUS    CURANTUE 


it  entertaining.  He  picked  up  a  stranger  now 
and  then,  but  it  wasn't  the  season  for  visitors, 
and  even  Uncle  George  Sawyer  shied  when  he 
saw  Henry  coming.  The  stubbornness  which  led 
him  to  insist  that  his  handicap  be  cut  would  not 
permit  him  to  hoist  the  white  flag  and  return  to 
the  fold,  and  altogether  he  had  a  wretched  time 
of  it — almost  as  bad  a  time  as  he  deserved. 
Left  to  himself  he  became  every  known  variety 
of  a  golfing  nut.  He  saved  his  score  cards,  en 
tering  them  on  some  sort  of  a  comparative  chart 
which  he  kept  in  his  locker — one  of  those  see-it- 
at-a-glance  things.  He  took  lessons  of  the  poor 
professional;  he  bought  new  clubs  and  discov 
ered  that  they  were  not  as  good  as  his  old  ones ; 
he  experimented  with  every  ball  on  the  market ; 
and  his  game  was  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
it  was  before  the  Hemmingway  Cup  poured  its 
poison  into  the  shrivelled  receptacle  which 
passed  for  Henry  Peacock's  soul. 

rv 

One  week  ago  last  Saturday,  Sam  Totten 
staged  his  annual  show.  Totten  Day  is  ringed 
with  red  on  all  calendars  belonging  to  Class-B 
golfers.  It  is  the  day  when  men  win  cups  who 
never  won  cups  before.  All  Class-A  men  are 
barred;  it  is  strictly  a  Class-B  party.  Those 
with  handicaps  from  twelve  to  twenty-four  are 
eligible,  and  there  are  cups  for  all  sorts  of 
things — the  best  gross,  the  best  first  nine,  the 

[189] 


FOEE! 

best  second  nine,  the  best  score  with  one  hole 
out,  the  best  score  with  two  holes  out,  and  so 
on.  Sam  always  buys  the  big  cup  himself — the 
one  for  the  best  gross  score — and  he  sandbags 
his  friends  into  contributing  at  least  a  dozen 
smaller  trophies.  The  big  cup  is  placed  on  ex 
hibition  before  play  begins,  but  the  others,  as 
well  as  the  conditions  of  award,  remain  under 
cover,  thus  introducing  the  element  of  the  un 
expected.  The  conditions  are  made  known  as 
the  cups  are  awarded  and  the  ceremony  of  pres 
entation  is  worth  going  a  long  way  to  see  and  a 
longer  way  to  hear. 

On  Totten  Day  three  of  us  were  looking  for  a 
fourth  man,  and  we  encountered  Henry  Pea 
cock,  in  his  chronic  state  of  loneliness.  The 
Bish  is  sometimes  a  very  secretive  person,  but 
he  might  have  spared  my  feelings  by  giving  me 
a  hint  of  his  intentions.  Henry  advanced  on  us, 
expecting  nothing,  hoping  for  nothing,  but  con 
vinced  that  there  was  no  harm  in  the  asking. 
He  used  the  threadbare  formula : 

"Any  vacancy  this  afternoon,  gentlemen?" 

1  <  Why,  yes ! ' '  said  the  Bish.  ' '  Yes,  we  're  one 
man  short.  Want  to  go  round  with  us  1 " 

Did  he !  Would  a  starving  newsboy  go  to  a 
turkey  dinner?  Henry  fell  all  over  himself  in 
his  eagerness  to  accept  that  invitation.  Any 
time  would  suit  him — just  let  him  get  a  sand 
wich  and  a  glass  of  milk  and  he  would  be  at  our 
service.  As  for  the  making  of  the  match,  the 
pairing  of  the  players,  he  would  leave  that  to 

[190] 


SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CURANTUR' 


the  Bish.  He,  Henry,  was  a  twelve-handicap 
man;  and  he  might  shoot  to  it,  and  again  he 
might  not.  Yes,  anything  would  suit  him — and 
he  scuttled  away  toward  the  dining-room. 

I  took  the  Bish  into  a  corner  and  spoke 
harshly  to  him.  He  listened  without  so  much  as 
a  twitch  of  his  long  solemn  upper  lip. 

"All  done?"  said  he  when  I  had  finished. 
"Very  well!  Listen  to  me.  I  took  him  in  with, 
us  because  this  is  Totten  Day." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything.  As  a  Class-B  man  he's  eligible 
to  play  for  those  cups.  If  he  tears  up  his  card 
or  picks  up  his  ball  he'll  disqualify  himself.  I 
want  to  make  sure  that  he  plays  every  hole  out, 
sinks  all  his  putts  and  has  his  card  turned  in.1', 

"But  you  don't  want  that  old  stiff  to  win  a 
cup,  do  you?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  Bish.  "Not  only  that,  but 
I'm  going  to  help  him  win  it.  That  old  boy 
hasn't  been  treated  right.  'Man's  inhumanity 
to  man'  is  a  frightful  thing  if  carried  to  ex 
tremes.  And  anyway,  what  are  you  kicking 
about?  You  don't  have  to  play  with  him.  I'll 
take  him  as  my  partner,  and  you  can  have 
Dale." 

When  our  foursome  appeared  on  the  first  tee 
there  was  quite  a  ripple  of  subdued  excitement. 
The  news  that  Henry  Peacock  had  finally  broken 
into  Class-A  company  was  sufficient  to  empty 
the  lounging  room.  Totten,  Miller  and  Wood- 
son  were  present,  but  not  in  their  golfing  clothes. 

[191] 


FORE! 

Sam  was  acting  as  field  marshal,  assisted  by 
Jumbo  and  Pete.  It  was  Woodson  who  came 
forward  and  patted  Henry  on  the  back. 

"Show  'em  what  you  can  do,  old  boy!"  said 
he.  ' '  Go  out  and  get  another  eighty- two ! ' ' 

"I'll  bring  him  home  in  front,"  said  the  Bish. 
"Of  course" — here  he  addressed  Henry — "you 
won't  mind  my  giving  you  a  pointer  or  two  as 
we  go  along.  We've  got  a  tough  match  here 
and  we  want  to  win  it  if  we  can. ' ' 

"I'll  be  only  too  happy,"  chirped  Henry,  all 
in  a  flutter.  "I  need  pointers.  Anything  you 
can  tell  me  will  be  appreciated." 

"That's  the  way  to  talk!"  said  the  Bish, 
slapping  him  on  the  back  and  almost  knocking 
him  down.  "The  only  golfer  who'll  never 
amount  to  anything  is  the  one  who  can't  be  told 
when  he  makes  a  mistake !" 

Well,  away  we  went,  Dale  and  I  driving  first. 
Then  the  Bish  sent  one  of  his  justly  celebrated 
tee  shots  screaming  up  the  course  and  made 
room  for  Henry.  Whether  it  was  the  keen  com 
petition  or  the  evident  interest  shown  by  the 
spectators  or  the  fact  that  the  Bish  insisted  that 
Henry  change  his  stance  I  cannot  say,  but  the 
old  man  nearly  missed  the  ball  entirely,  topping 
it  into  the  bunker. 

"Don't  let  a  little  thing  like  that  worry  you," 
said  the  Bish,  taking  Henry's  arm.  "I'll  tell 
you  how  to  play  the  next  shot." 

Arriving  at  the  bunker  Henry  armed  himself 
with  his  niblick. 

[192] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CUEANTUB' 


' '  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  blunder 
buss?"  asked  the  Bish.  "  Can't  you  play  your 
jigger  at  all?" 

' '  My  jigger ! ' '  exclaimed  Henry.  '  *  But — it 's 
a  niblick  shot,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  what  most  people  would  tell  you,  but 
in  this  case,  with  a  good  lie  and  a  lot  of  distance 
to  make  up,  I'd  take  the  jigger  and  pick  it  up 
clean.  If  you  hit  it  right  you  '11  get  a  long  ball. ' ' 

Now  Chick  Evans  or  Ouimet  might  play  a 
jigger  in  a  bunker  and  get  away  with  it  once 
in  a  while,  but  to  recommend  that  very  tricky 
iron  to  a  dub  like  Henry  Peacock  was  nothing 
short  of  a  misdemeanour.  Acting  under  in 
structions  he  swung  as  hard  as  he  could,  but  the 
narrow  blade  hit  the  sand  four  inches  behind 
the  ball  and  buried  it  completely. 

' '  Oh,  tough  luck ! ' '  said  the  Bish.  ' '  Now  for 
a  little  high-class  excavating.  Scoop  her  out 
with  the  niblick." 

Henry  scooped  three  times,  at  last  popping 
the  ball  over  the  grassy  wail.  The  Bish  did  not 
seem  in  the  least  discouraged. 

"Now  your  wood,"  said  he. 

"But  I  play  a  cleek  better." 

"Nonsense!  Take  a  good  hard  poke  at  it 
with  the  brassy!" 

And  poke  it  he  did — a  nasty  slice  into  rough 
grass. 

"I  could  have  kept  it  straight  with  an  iron," 
said  Henry  reproachfully. 
[193] 


FORE! 


. . 


;Well,  of  course,"  said  the  Bisli,  "if  you 
don't  want  me  to  advise  you " 

"But  I  do!"  Henry  hastened  to  assure  him. 
"Oh,  I  do !  You  can't  imagine  how  much  I  ap 
preciate  your  correcting  my  mistakes!" 

"Spoken  like  a  sportsman,"  said  the  Bish, 
and  followed  at  Henry's  heels.  By  acting  upon 
all  the  advice  given  him  Henry  managed  to 
achieve  that  first  hole  in  eleven  strokes.  He 
said  he  hoped  that  we  would  believe  he  could 
do  better  than  that. 

"Sure  you  can!"  said  the  Bish  with  enthu 
siasm.  "One  thing  about  you,  Peacock,  you're 
willing  to  learn,  and  when  a  man  is  willing  to 
learn  there  is  always  hope  for  him.  Never  let 
one  bad  hole  get  your  nanny." 

"Eleven!"  murmured  Henry.  "No  chance 
for  me  to  win  that  big  cup  now. ' ' 

"Aw,  what's  one  cup,  more  or  less?"  de 
manded  the  Bish.  "You'll  get  something  to 
day  worth  more  than  any  cup.  You'll  get  keen 
competition — and  advice. ' ' 

Indeed  that  was  the  truth.  The  competition 
was  keen  enough,  and  the  advice  poured  forth 
in  a  steady  stream.  The  Bish  never  left  Henry 
alone  with  his  ball  for  an  instant.  He  was  not 
allowed  to  think  for  himself,  nor  was  he  al 
lowed  to  choose  the  clubs  with  which  to  execute 
his  shots.  If  he  wished  to  use  a  mashie  the 
Bish  would  insist  on  the  midiron.  If  he  pulled 
the  midiron  from  his  bag  the  jigger  would  be 
placed  in  nomination.  The  climax  came  when 
[194] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CURAISTTUE' 


{lie  Bisli  gravely  explained  that  all  putter  shots 
should  be  played  with  a  slight  hook,  "for  the 
sake  of  the  extra  run."  That  was  when  I 
nearly  swallowed  my  chewing  gum. 

"He's  steering  him  all  wrong,"  whispered 
Dale.  "What's  the  idea?" 

I  suggested  that  he  ask  the  Bish  that  ques 
tion  ;  but  we  got  nothing  out  of  that  remarkable 
man  but  a  cool,  impersonal  stare;  and  for  the 
first  time  since  I  have  known  him  the  Bish  kept 
a  careful  record  of  the  scores.  As  a  general 
thing  he  carries  the  figures  in  his  head — and 
when  you  find  a  man  who  does  that  you  have 
found  a  golfer.  Henry's  score  would  have  been 
a  great  memory  test.  It  ran  to  eights,  nines 
and  double  figures,  and  on  the  long  hole,  when 
he  topped  his  drive  into  the  bottom  of  the  ravine 
and  played  seven  strokes  in  a  tangle  of  syca 
more  roots  he  amassed  the  astonishing  total  of 
fifteen.  From  time  to  time  he  bleated  plain 
tively,  but  the  Bish,  sticking  closer  than  a 
brother,  advised  him  to  put  all  thought  of  his 
score  out  of  his  head  and  concentrate  on  his 
shots.  Henry  might  have  been  able  to  do  this 
if  he  had  been  left  alone,  but  with  a  human 
phonograph  at  his  elbow  he  had  no  chance  to 
concentrate  on  anything.  He  finished  in  a  blaze 
of  glory,  taking  nine  on  the  last  hole,  and  the 
Bish  slapped  him  violently  between  the  shoul 
der  blades. 

"You'll  be  all  right,  Peacock,  if  you  just  re 
member  what  I've  told  you.  The  fundamentals 

[195] 


FORE! 

of  your  game  are  sound  enough,  but  you've  a 
tendency  to  underclub  yourself.  You  must  curb 
that.  Never  be  afraid  of  getting  too  much  dis 
tance.  ' ' 

"I — I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you,"  said  Henry. 
"I'm  obliged  to  all  you  gentlemen.  I  hope  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  playing  with  you  again 
soon — er — quite  soon.  I'm  here  nearly  every 
afternoon.  And  anything  you  can  tell  me " 

Henry  continued  to  babble  and  the  Bish  drew 
me  aside. 

"Hold  him  in  the  lounging  room  for  a  while. 
Don't  let  him  get  away.  Talk  to  him  about  his 
game — anything.  Buy  him  soft  drinks,  but  keep 
him  there ! ' ' 

Immediately  thereafter  the  Bish  excused  him 
self,  and  I  heard  him  demanding  to  know  where 
he  might  come  by  a  shingle  nail. 

The  Totten  Day  cups  were  presented  in  the 
lounging  room  with  the  usual  ceremonies.  Sam 
made  the  speeches  and  Jumbo  acted  as  ser- 
geant-at-arms,  escorting  the  winners  to  the 
table  at  the  end  of  the  room.  By  selecting  an 
obscure  corner  I  had  been  able  to  detain  Henry 
for  a  time,  but  when  the  jollification  began  he 
showed  signs  of  nervousness.  He  spoke  of 
needing  a  shower  and  was  twice  on  the  point  of 
departure  when  my  good  fairy  prompted  me  to 
mention  the  winning  of  the  Hemmingway  Cup. 
Immediately  he  launched  into  an  elaborate  de 
scription  of  that  famous  victory,  stroke  by 
[196] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CUEANTUR' 


stroke,  with  distances,  direction  and  choice  of 
clubs  set  forth  in  proper  order.  He  was  some 
where  on  the  seventh  hole  when  Totten  made 
his  last  speech. 

* '  So  I  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  decided  it  was 
too  far  for  the  mashie  and  not  quite  far  enough 
for  the- 

There  was  a  loud,  booming  noise  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  Over  the  sea  of  heads  I 
caught  sight  of  the  Bish  mounting  a  table.  He 
had  a  large  green  felt  bag  under  his  arm. 

"Gentlemen!"  he  shouted.  "Gentlemen — if 
you  are  gentlemen! — I  crave  your  indulgence 
for  a  moment!  A  moment,  I  beg  of  you!  I 
have  here  an  added  trophy — a  trophy  which  I 
may  say  is  unique  in  golfing  history ! ' ' 

He  paused,  and  there  was  a  faint  patter  of 
applause,  followed  by  cries  of  "Go  to  it,  Bish!" 
I  glanced  at  Sam  Totten,  and  the  surprised  ex 
pression  on  his  face  told  me  that  this  part  of 
the  programme  was  not  of  his  making. 

"All  the  cups  presented  to-day,"  continued 
the  Bish,  "have  been  awarded  for  a  best  score 
of  some  sort.  I  believe  you  will  agree  with  me 
that  this  is  manifestly  one-sided  and  unfair." 

"Hear!  Hear!"  cried  a  voice. 

"Throw  that  twenty-four-handicap  man 
out!"  said  the  Bish.  "Now  the  cup  which  I 
hold  in  my  hands  is  a  cup  for  the  highest  gross 
score  ever  made  by  a  twelve-handicap  man  in 
the  United  States  of  America." 

Henry  Peacock  jumped  as  if  his  name  had 
[197] 


FORE! 

been  called.    If  I  had  not  laid  my  hand  on  his 
arm  he  would  have  bolted  for  the  door. 

"I  take  great  pleasure,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
Bish  after  the  uproar  had  subsided,  "in  pre 
senting  this  unique  trophy  to  one  who  now  has 
a  double  distinction.  He  is  the  holder  of  two 
records — one  for  the  lowest  net  score  on  rec 
ord,  the  other  for  the  highest  gross.  Mr.  Henry 
Peacock  shot  the  course  to-day  in  exactly  one 
hundred  and  sixty-seven  strokes.  .  .  .  Bring 
the  gentleman  forward,  please!" 

There  was  a  great  burst  of  laughter  and  ap 
plause,  and  under  cover  of  the  confusion  Henry 
tried  to  escape.  A  dozen  laughing  members 
surrounded  him,  and  he  surrendered,  sputter 
ing  incoherently.  He  was  escorted  to  the  table, 
and  the  double  wall  of  cheering  humanity  closed 
in  behind  him  and  surged  forward.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  face  as  the  Bish  bent  over  and 
placed  the  green  bag  in  his  hands.  It  was  very 
red,  and  his  lower  lip  was  trembling  with  rage. 

"Open  it  up!    Come  on,  let's  see  it!" 

Mr.  Peacock  cast  one  despairing  glance  to  left 
and  right  and  plunged  his  hand  into  the  bag.  I 
do  not  know  what  he  expected  to  find  there,  but 
it  was  a  cup,  sure  enough — a  fine,  large  pewter 
cup,  cast  in  feeble  imitation  of  the  genuine  ar 
ticle  and  worth  perhaps  seventy-five  cents. 
And  on  the  side  of  this  cup  rudely  engraved 
with  a  shingle  nail,  was  the  record  of  Mr.  Pea 
cock's  activities  for  the  afternoon,  in  gross  and 
detail,  as  follows: 

[198] 


'SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CURAJSTTUIT 


HOLES 

PAR 

PEACOCK 

1 

4 

11 

2 

4 

9 

3 

4 

8 

4 

5 

8 

5 

3 

7 

6 

6 

15 

7 

5 

9 

8 

4 

8 

9 

4 

12 

10 

5 

12 

11 

3 

7 

12 

4 

8 

13 

4 

9 

14 

3 

7 

15 

4 

8 

16 

4 

9 

17 

5 

11 

18 

5 

9 

Total.  . 

..76 

167 

As  Henry  gazed  at  this  work  of  art  a  shout 
came  from  the  back  of  the  room.  Waddles  had 
come  to  life. 

* '  Winner  buys,  Henry !  Winner  always  buys ! 
It 's  a  rule  of  the  club ! ' ' 

' i  The  club  be  damned ! ' '  cried  Henry  Peacock 
as  he  fought  his  way  to  the  door. 

"Bish,"  said  Frank  Wooclson,  "that  was  a 
rotten  trick  to  play  on  anybody.  You  shouldn't 
have  done  it." 

"A  rotten  case,"  replied  the  Bish,  "requires 
a  rotten  remedy.  It 's  kill  or  cure ;  even  money 
and  take  your  pick." 

As  it  turned  out  it  was  a  cure. 
Henry  Peacock  is  once  more  a  member  of  the 
Old  Guard,  in  good  standing  and  entitled  to  all 
[199] 


FOEE! 

privileges.  Totten,  Woodson  and  Miller  re 
ceived  him  with  open  arms,  and  they  actually 
treat  the  old  reprobate  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  I  believe  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 
he  reminds  them  that  he  once  shot  an  eighty- 
two,  and  a  longer  time  before  he  breaks  a 
ninety. 


[200] 


COLONEL  JIMMY  threatens  to  resign 
from  the  club.  He  says  it  was  sharp 
practice.  Archie  MacBride  says  it 
wasn't  half  as  sharp  as  the  lumbago 
trick  which  the  Colonel  worked  on  him  as  well 
as  several  of  the  other  young  members.  Colonel 
Jimmy  Norman  is  one  of  the  charter  members 
of  our  golf  club.  He  is  about  as  old  as  Methu 
selah  and  he  looks  it.  That  is  what  fools  peo 
ple.  It  doesn't  fool  the  handicap  committee, 
though.  They've  got  the  Colonel  down  to  8 
now  and  he  hasn't  entered  a  club  competition 
since  for  fear  they'll  cut  him  to  6.  Respect  for 
age  is  a  fine  thing,  I  admit,  but  anybody  who 
can  step  out  and  tear  off  79 's  and  80  's  on  the 
Meadowmead  course — 72  par  and  a  tough  72  at 
that — isn't  entitled  to  much  the  best  of  it  be 
cause  he  can  remember  the  Civil  War  and  cast 
his  first  vote  for  Tilden. 

Mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  Colonel  Jimmy 
shoots  79 's  every  day,  but  he  shoots  'em  when 
[201] 


FORE! 

he  needs  79 's  to  win,  and  that's  the  mark  of  a 
real  golfer.  And  bet?  The  old  pirate  will  bet 
anything  from  a  repainted  golf  ball  to  a  govern 
ment  bond.  He  has  never  been  known  to  take 
his  clubs  out  of  the  locker  without  a  gamble  of 
some  sort.  The  new  members  pay  all  the  ex 
penses  of  Colonel  Jimmy's  golfing,  as  well  as 
the  upkeep  of  his  limousine — the  old  members 
are  shy  of  him — and  the  way  he  can  nurse  a 
victim  along  for  months  without  letting  him  win 
a  single  bet  is  nothing  short  of  miraculous.  I 
ought  to  know,  for  I  am  one  of  Colonel  Jimmy's 
graduates,  and,  while  I  never  beat  him  in  my 
life,  he  always  left  me  with  the  impression  that 
I  would  surely  rook  him  the  next  time — if  I  had 
any  luck.  Somehow  I  never  had  the  luck. 

Colonel  Jimmy  has  the  gentle  art  of  coin  sep 
aration  down  to  an  exact  science.  Perhaps  this 
is  because  he  made  his  money  in  Wall  Street 
and  applies  Wall  Street  methods  to  his  golf. 
After  every  match  he  waits  around  until  he 
collects.  He  always  apologises  for  taking  the 
money  and  says  that  he  hopes  you'll  be  on  your 
game  the  next  time. 

The  Colonel  is  a  shrewd  judge  of  how  far  he 
can  go  in  shearing  a  lamb,  and  when  he  sees 
signs  that  the  victim  is  getting  bare  in  spots 
and  is  about  ready  to  stop  betting  with  him,  he 
cleans  up  all  the  spare  fleece  with  the  lumbago 
trick.  I  '11  never  forget  how  he  worked  it  on  me. 
I  had  been  betting  him  five  and  ten  dollars  a 
match  and  winning  nothing  but  sympathy  and 
[202] 


A    CURE    FOR    LUMBAGO 


advice  and  I  was  about  ready  to  quit  the  Colo 
nel  as  a  poor  investment. 

The  next  time  I  went  out  to  the  club  I  found 
Colonel  Jimmy  sitting  on  the  porch  in  the  sun 
and  I  heard  him  groan  even  before  I  saw  him. 
Naturally  I  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

"Oh,  it's  this  cursed  lumbago  again!  I  must 
have  caught  cold  after  my  shower  the  other 
night  and — ouch! — just  when  I'd  been  looking 
forward  to  a  nice  little  game  this  afternoon, 
too!  It's  a  real  pleasure  to  play  with  a  young 
man  like  you  who — ouch !  O-o-o ! ' ' 

After  a  while  he  began  to  wonder  whether 
light  exercise  would  do  him  any  good.  I  thought 
it  might  and  he  let  me  persuade  him.  If  I  would 
give  him  my  arm  as  far  as  his  locker — ouch ! 

All  the  time  he  wras  dressing  he  grunted  and 
groaned  and  rubbed  his  back  and  cursed  the 
lumbago  bitterly.  He  said  it  was  the  one  thing 
the  devil  didn't  try  on  Job  because  it  would 
have  fetched  him  if  he  had.  He  worried  some 
because  he  would  have  to  drive  with  an  iron,  not 
being  able  to  take  a  full  swing  with  a  wooden 
club.  Then  when  he  had  me  all  ribbed  up  prop 
erly,  he  dropped  a  hint  where  I  couldn't  help 
but  stumble  over  it. 

"You  have  always  named  the  bet,"  said  Col 
onel  Jimmy.  "Don't  take  advantage  of  my 
condition  to  raise  r!  beyond  reason." 

Up  to  that  time  the  idea  of  making  a  bet  with 
a  cripple  hadn't  occurred  to  me.  It  wouldn't 
have  seemed  fair.  I  got  to  thinking  about  the 
[203] 


FORE! 

fives  and  the  tens  that  the  old  rascal  had  taken 
away  from  me  when  the  advantage  was  all  on 
his  side  and — 

"I  suppose  I  shouldn't  expect  mercy,"  said 
Colonel  Jimmy,  fitting  his  remarks  to  my 
thought  like  a  mind  reader,  "I  have  been 
quite  fortunate  in  winning  from  you,  William, 
wThen  you  were  not  playing  your  best.  This 
seems  an  excellent  opportunity  for  you  to  take 
revenge.  This  cursed  lumbago " 

The  match  was  finally  made  at  five  dollars 
a  hole,  and  if  I  hadn't  been  ashamed  of  taking 
advantage  of  a  cripple  I  would  have  said  ten. 

Colonel  Jimmy  w7hined  a  little  and  said  that 
in  his  condition  it  was  almost  a  shame  for  me 
to  raise  the  bet  to  five  dollars  a  hole  and  that  he 
couldn't  possibly  allow  me  any  more  than  five 
strokes  w7here  before  he  had  been  giving  me 
eight  and  ten.  He  said  he  probably  wouldn't 
get  any  distance  off  the  tees  on  account  of  not 
being  able  to  take  a  full  swing,  and  I  agreed  on 
the  basis  of  five  strokes,  one  each  on  the  five 
longest  holes. 

I  went  out  to  the  professional's  shop  to  buy 
some  new  balls.  David  Cameron  is  a  good 
club  maker,  but  a  disappointing  conversational 
ist.  He  says  just  so  much,  and  then  he  stops 
and  rubs  his  left  ear.  I  told  David  that  I  had 
caught  Colonel  Jimmy  out  of  line  at  last  and 
would  bring  him  home  at  least  six  or  seven 
down. 

said  David.    "He'll  be  havin'  one  of 
[204] 


A    CUEE    FOK    LUMBAGO 


his  attacks  of  the  lumba-ago  again,  I'm  think- 
in'.  Ye Ve  raised  the  bet?" 

I  admitted  that  the  bet  had  been  pressed  a 
little.  "Ye 're  not  gettin'  as  many  str-rokes 
as  usual?" 

I  explained  about  the  Colonel's  not  being 
able  to  take  a  full  swing  with  his  wooden  clubs. 

"Ay,"  said  David,  beginning  to  polish  his  left 
ear. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you  think," 
said  I. 

"I'm  thinkin',"  said  David,  "that  ye '11  not 
have  noticed  that  the  climate  hereabouts  is 
varra  benefeecial  to  certain  for-rms  o'  disease. 
I've  known  it  to  cure  the  worst  case  o'  lumba- 
ago  between  the  clubhouse  an'  the  fir-rst  tee. 
The  day  o'  meeracles  is  not  past  by  ony 
means,"  concluded  David,  rubbing  his  ear  hard. 

I  suspected  then  that  I  had  a  bad  bet.  I  was 
sure  of  it  when  I  saw  Colonel  Jimmy  pulling  his 
driver  out  of  the  bag  on  the  first  tee. 

' '  I  thought  you  said  you  'd  have  to  drive  with 
an  iron. ' '  I  reminded  him  of  it  anyway. 

' '  I  might  as  well  try  the  wood, ' '  said  Colonel 
Jimmy.  "I'll  have  to  shorten  up  my  swing 
some  and  I  suppose  I'll  top  the  ball." 

He  groaned  and  he  grunted  when  he  took  his 
practice  swing,  and  said  that  he  was  really 
afraid  he'd  have  to  call  the  bet  off,  but  when 
he  hit  the  ball  he  followed  through  like  a  six 
teen-year-old,  and  it  went  sailing  down  the 

[205] 


FORE! 

middle  of  the  course,  a  good  200  yards — which 
is  as  far  as  Colonel  Jimmy  ever  drives. 

"Well,  I'll  declare!"  he  crowed.  "Look  at 
that  ball  go !  I  had  no  idea  I  could  do  it !  And 
with  this  lumbago  too!" 

There's  no  use  in  prolonging  the  agony  with 
a  detailed  account  of  the  match.  The  old  shark 
was  out  for  the  fag  end  of  the  fleece  crop  so  far 
as  I  was  concerned,  and  he  surely  gave  me  a 
close  clip.  He  made  a  79  that  day  and  I  had 
to  hand  him  my  check  for  forty  dollars.  It 
might  not  have  been  so  much,  only  on  every 
tee  the  Colonel  whined  about  his  lumbago  and 
got  me  in  such  a  state  of  mind  that  I  couldn't 
keep  my  eye  on  the  ball  to  save  my  life 

When  we  got  back  to  the  clubhouse,  David 
Cameron  was  sitting  in  the  door  of  his  shop, 
rubbing  his  left  ear  thoughtfully.  He  knew  it 
wouldn't  have  been  safe  for  him  to  ask  about 
the  match.  Colonel  Jimmy,  confound  him, 
blatted  right  along,  apologising  to  me  for  play 
ing  "better  than  he  knew  how"  and  all  that 
sort  of  rot.  He  said  he  hoped  we  could  have 
another  match  soon,  and  perhaps  I  was  a  little 
crusty  with  him.  At  any  rate  he  was  satisfied 
that  my  forty-dollar  check  was  the  last  contri 
bution  he  would  ever  get  from  me,  and  he  took 
up  with  Archie  Mac-Bride,  who  had  just  joined 
the  club  and  was  learning  the  game. 

Archie  hails  from  out  West  somewhere  and 
he  has  the  Eastern  agency  for  a  lot  of  stuff 
manufactured  in  Chicago.  In  the  beginning  he 

[206] 


A    CUEE    FOB    LUMBAGO 


didn't  know  any  of  the  younger  members  at 
Meadowmead  and  that  made  it  easy  for  the 
Colonel  to  take  him  under  his  wing.  The  old 
rascal  has  rather  a  pleasant  manner — in  the 
clubhouse  at  least — and  he  talked  Chicago  to 
Archie — what  a  wonderful  city  it  is  and  all  that 
stuff.  He  talked  the  same  way  to  me  about 
Cincinnati. 

I  watched  the  shearing  proceed  to  the  lum 
bago  stage,  but  I  didn't  interfere.  In  the  first 
place,  it  wasn't  any  of  my  business.  In  the  sec 
ond,  I  hadn't  been  introduced  to  MacBride. 
And,  besides,  I  had  a  sort  of  curiosity  to  know 
how  he  would  act  when  he  was  stung.  He 
looked  more  like  a  goat  than  a  lamb  to  me. 

One  day  I  was  sitting  on  the  porch  and  Mac- 
Bride  came  out  of  the  locker  room  and  sat  down 
beside  me.  Colonel  Jimmy  was  over  on  the 
extra  green,  practicing  sidehill  putts.  Some 
how  we  drifted  into  conversation. 

* '  Did  you  ever  play  with  that  old  fellow  over 
there?"  said  he. 

"A  few  times." 

"Ever  beat  him?" 

"No-o.  Nor  anybody  else.  His  methods  are 
• — well,  peculiar." 

"Darned  peculiar!  I  don't  know  but  that 
the  grand  jury  ought  to  investigate  'em.  If 
you  shoot  110  at  him,  he's  just  good  enough  to 
win.  If  you  make  a  90,  he's  still  good  enough 
to  win.  He's  always  good  enough  to  win.  The 
[207] 


FORE! 

other  day  I  came  out  here  and  found  him  all 
doubled  up  with " 

"Lumbago,  wasn't  it!" 

MacBride  held  out  his  hand  immediately. 

"Both  members  of  the  same  lodge!"  said  he. 
"I  feel  better  now.  He  nicked  me  for  an  even 
hundred.  What  did  he  get  you  for?" 

Nothing  cements  a  friendship  like  a  common 
grievance.  We  had  both  been  rooked  by  the 
lumbago  trick  and  we  fell  to  discussing  the 
Colonel  and  his  petty  larceny  system  of  pick 
ing  on  the  new  members. 

"Far  be  it  that  I  should  squeal,"  said  Archie. 
"I  hope  I'm  a  good  loser  as  far  as  the  money 
goes,  but  I  hate  to  be  bunkoed.  I  handed  over 
one  hundred  big  iron  dollars  to  that  hoary  old 
pirate — and  I  smiled  when  I  did  it.  It  hurt  me 
worse  to  smile  than  it  did  to  part  with  the  frog 
skins,  but  I  wanted  the  Colonel  to  think  that  I 
didn't  suspect  him.  I  want  him  to  regard  me 
as  a  soft  proposition  and  an  easy  mark  because 
some  day  I  am  going  to  leave  a  chunk  of  bait 
lying  around  where  that  old  coyote  can  see  it. 
If  he  gobbles  it — good  night.  Yes,  sir,  I'm  go 
ing  to  slip  one  over  on  him  that  he  '11  remember 
even  when  they  begin  giving  him  the  oxygen." 

"He'll  never  be  trimmed  on  a  golf  course," 
said  I. 

"He'll  never  be  trimmed  anywhere  else.    It's 

the  only  game  he  plays.     If  he  sticks  around 

this   club,  I'll  introduce  him  to  the   Chicago 

method  of  taking  the  bristles  off  a  hog.     I'm 

[208] 


A    CURE    FOE   LUMBAGO 


not  sure,  but  I  think  it's  done  with  a  hoe." 
1  'It  can't  be  done  with  a  set  of  golf  clubs," 
said  I. 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  By  the  way,  my 
name's  MacBride.  What's  yours?  ...  If  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  call  you  Bill  for  short.  We  will 
now  visit  the  nineteenth  tee  and  pour  a  liba 
tion  on  the  altar  of  friendship.  We  will  drink 
success  to  the  Chicago  method  of  shearing  a 
hog.  Simple,  effective,  and  oh,  so  painful!" 

n 

Colonel  Jimmy  picked  up  a  new  pupil  after 
Archie  quit  him  and  Archie  paired  off  with  me. 
We  played  two  or  three  times  a  week  and  often 
ran  into  the  Colonel  on  the  porch  or  in  the 
locker  room.  The  old  reprobate  was  always 
cordial  in  his  cat-and-canary  way — infernally 
cordial.  I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation  to  in 
quire  after  his  lumbago  occasionally,  but  it  was 
next  to  impossible  to  hurt  his  feelings.  The  old 
fellow's  hide  was  bullet  proof  and  even  the 
broadest  sort  of  hint  wras  lost  on  him.  Archie 
was  more  tactful.  He  used  to  joke  the  Colonel 
about  a  return  match,  but  he  was  never  able  to 
fix  a  date.  The  Colonel  was  busy  anyway.  His 
latest  victim  was  a  chinless  youth  from  Pough- 
keepsie  with  money  to  burn  and  no  fear  of 
matches. 

One  afternoon  Archie  brought  a  friend  out 
to  the  club  with  him — an  immense  big  chap  with 

[209] 


FOEE! 

hands  and  feet  like  hams.  Everything  about 
him  was  beyond  the  limit.  He  was  too  beefy 
to  begin  with,  though  I  suppose  that  wasn't  his 
fault.  He  wore  a  red  tie  and  a  yellow  vest.  He 
talked  too  much  and  too  loud.  Archie  intro 
duced  him  to  me  as  Mr.  Small  of  Chicago. 

' ' Small  but  not  little ! ' '  said  Small.    < '  Haw ! ' ' 

"Mr.  Small  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  said 
Archie.  "He  is  taking  a  short  vacation  and  I 
am  putting  him  up  at  the  club  for  a  week  or  ten 
days.  He  doesn't  look  it,  but  his  doctor  says  he 
needs  exercise." 

"Yeh,"  said  Small,  "and  while  I'm  resting  I 
think  I'll  learn  this  fool  game  of  golf.  Think 
of  a  big  fellow  like  me,  whaling  a  poor  little  pill 
all  over  the  country !  I  suppose  all  there  is  to  it 
is  to  hit  the  blamed  thing." 

Colonel  Jimmy  was  sitting  over  by  the  read 
ing  table  and  I  saw  him  prick  up  his  ears  at  this 
remark.  He  always  manages  to  scrape  an  ac 
quaintance  with  all  the  beginners. 

Small  went  booming  along. 

"I  can  remember,"  said  he,  "when  people 
who  played  golf  were  supposed  to  be  a  little 
queer  upstairs.  Cow-pasture  pool,  we  used  to 
call  it.  It'o  a  good  deal  like  shinny-on-your- 
own-side,  ain't  it?" 

Archie  took  him  out  to  David  to  get  him  out 
fitted  with  clubs  and  things,  left  Small  in  the 
shop,  and  came  back  to  explain  matters  to  me. 

"You  mustn't  mind  Small's  manner,"  said 
he.  "He's  really  one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the 
[210] 


A    CUKE    FOR   LUMBAGO 


world,  but  he's — well,  a  trifle  crude  in  spots. 
He's  never  had  time  to  acquire  a  polish;  he's 
been  too  busy  making  money. ' ' 

" Excuse  me" — Colonel  Jimmy  had  been  lis 
tening — "but  is  he  in  any  way  related  to  the 
Caspar  Smalls  of  Chicago  and  Denver?" 

' '  Not  that  I  know  of,  Colonel, ' '  said  Archie. 

"You  spoke  of  money,"  said  I.  "Has  he  so 
much  of  it,  then?" 

' i  Barrels,  my  dear  boy,  barrels.  Crude  oil  is 
his  line  at  present.  And  only  thirty-five  years 
of  age  too.  He's  a  self-made  man,  Small  is." 

I  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say  except 
that  he  must  have  had  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  raw 
material  to  start  with — and  if  I  put  the  accent 
on  the  raw  it  was  unintentional. 

"Well,"  said  Archie,  "his  heart  is  in  the 
right  place  anyway. ' ' 

When  you  can't  think  of  anything  else  to  say 
for  a  man,  you  can  always  say  that  his  heart  is 
in  the  right  place.  It  sounds  well,  but  it  doesn't 
mean  anything.  Archie  proposed  that  we 
should  let  Small  go  around  with  us  that  after 
noon.  I  didn't  like  the  idea,  but,  of  course,  I 
kept  mum;  the  man  was  Archie's  guest. 

Small  got  in  bad  on  the  first  tee.  I  knew  he 
would  when  I  saw  who  was  ahead  of  us — Colo 
nel  Jimmy  and  the  chinless  boy.  Like  most 
elderly  mechanical  golfers,  the  Colonel  is  a 
stickler  for  the  etiquette  of  the  game — absolute 
silence  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Archie  introduced  Small  to  the  Colonel  and 
[211] 


FOKE! 

the  Colonel  introduced  us  to  the  chinless  boy, 
who  said  he  was  charmed,  stepped  up  011  the 
tee  and  whacked  his  ball  into  the  rough. 

While  the  Colonel  was  teeing  up,  Small  kept 
moving  around  and  talking  in  that  megaphone 
voice  of  his.  Colonel  Jimmy  looked  at  him 
rather  eloquently  a  couple  of  times  and  finally 
Small  hushed  up.  The  Colonel  took  his  stance, 
tramped  around  awhile  to  get  a  firm  footing, 
addressed  the  ball  three  times,  and  drew  his 
club  back  for  the  swing.  Just  as  it  started 
downward,  Small  sneezed — one  of  those  sneezes 
with  an  Indian  war  whoop  on  the  end  of  it — 
"Aa-chew!"  Naturally  Colonel  Jimmy 
jumped,  took  his  eye  off  the  ball  and  topped  it 
into  the  long  grass  in  front  of  the  tee. 

''Take  it  over,"  said  the  chinless  boy,  who 
was  a  sport  if  nothing  else. 

"I  certainly  intend  to!"  snapped  the  Colo 
nel,  glaring  at  Small.  "You — you  spoiled  my 
swing,  sir!" 

"Quit  your  kidding,  Colonel!"  said  Small. 
"How  could  I  spoil  your  swing?" 

"You  sneezed  behind  me!" 

Small  laughed  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "Haw! 
Haw!  That's  rich!  Why,  I've  seen  Heinie 
Zimmerman  hit  a  baseball  a  mile  with  thirty 
thousand  people  yelling  their  heads  off  at  him ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Archie,  "but  that  was  baseball. 
This  is  golf.  There's  a  difference." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel,  "when  you 
[212] 


A    CUKE    FOB   LUMBAGO 


are   through   with   your   discussion,   I   would 
really  like  to  drive.'* 

m 

I  played  with  Small  all  the  afternoon  with 
out  yielding  to  an  impulse  to  slay  him  with  a 
niblick,  which  speaks  volumes  for  my  good 
disposition.  It  wras  a  harrowing  experience. 
Small  proceeded  on  the  usual  theory  of  the  be 
ginner,  which  is  to  hit  the  ball  as  hard  as  pos 
sible  and  trust  to  luck.  The  most  I  can  say  for 
his  day's  play  is  that  I  never  expect  to  see  golf 
balls  hit  any  harder.  His  wooden  club  shots 
hooked  and  sliced  into  the  woods  on  either  side 
of  the  course — he  bought  a  dozen  balls  to  begin 
with  and  was  borrowing  from  us  at  the  finish — 
he  dug  up  great  patches  of  turf  on  the  fair 
greens,  he  nearly  destroyed  three  bunkers  and 
after  every  shot  he  yelled  like  a  Comanche. 

We  caught  up  with  Colonel  Jimmy  at  the 
eighteenth  tee.  The  Colonel  was  in  a  better 
humour  and  was  offering  to  give  the  chinless 
boy  a  stroke  and  play  him  double  or  quits  on 
the  last  hole — sure  proof  that  he  had  him  badly 
licked.  The  chinless  boy  took  the  bet. 

"Now,  there's  some  sense  to  that!"  said 
Small.  "I  never  could  play  any  game  for  fun. 
Make  it  worth  while,  that 's  what  I  say !  Archie, 
I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  that  I  beat  you  this 
hole!" 

Colonel  Jimmy  was  picking  up  a  handful  of 
[213] 


FORE  ! 

sand  from  a  tee.    He  dropped  it  and  began  to 
clean  his  ball. 

:<     "I'd  be  ashamed  to  take  the  money,"  said 
Archie.    "You  wouldn't  have  a  chance." 

' '  You  mean  you  're  afraid  to  take  one.  Be  a 
sport!" 

"I  am  a  sport.  That's  why  I  won't  bet  on  a 
cinch." 

They  had  quite  a  jawing  match  and  finally 
Archie  said  that  he  would  bet  Small  ten  dol* 
lars. 

"Huh!"  said  Small.  "I  wouldn't  exert  my 
self  for  a  measly  ten  spot.  Make  it  twenty- 
five!" 

"Well,  if  you  insist,"  said  Archie,  "and  I'll 
give  you  two  strokes." 

"You'll  give  me  nothing!"  said  Small. 
"What  do  you  think  I  am?  I'll  play  you  even 
and  lick  you."  And  he  was  so  nasty  about  it 
that  Archie  had  to  agree. 

The  Colonel  turned  around  after  he  played 
his  second  shot  to  watch  us  drive.  Small  took 
a  tremendous  swing  and  hooked  the  ball  over 
the  fence  and  out  of  bounds.  He  borrowed  an 
other  and  sliced  that  one  into  the  woods. 
When  he  finally  sunk  his  putt — he  took  17  for 
the  hole  and  that  wasn't  counting  the  ones  he 
missed — he  dug  up  a  wallet  stuffed  with  cur 
rency  and  insisted  on  paying  Archie  on  the  spot. 

"I  don't  feel  right  about  taking  this,"  said 
Archie. 

[214] 


A    CUBE    FOB    LUMBAGO 


"You  won  it,  didn't  you?"  said  Small.  "If 
you  had  lost,  would  you  have  paid?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  Archie,  "but " 

1 '  But  nothing !    Take  it  and  shut  up ! " 

Colonel  Jimmy,  waiting  on  the  porch,  was  an 
interested  witness.  In  less  than  five  minutes 
by  the  watch  the  chinless  boy  was  sitting  over 
in  a  corner,  alone  with  a  lemonade,  and  the 
Colonel  had  Small  by  the  buttonhole,  talking 
Chicago  to  him.  I  have  always  claimed  that 
Colonel  Jimmy  has  all  the  instincts  of  a  wolf, 
but  perhaps  it  is  only  his  "Wall  Street  training 
that  makes  him  so  keen  when  a  lamb  is  in  sight. 

"Yes,  Chicago  is  a  live  town  all  right,"  said 
Small,  "but  about  this  golf  proposition,  now: 
I'm  getting  the  hang  of  the  thing,  Colonel.  If 
I  didn't  lose  so  many  balls ' 

"You  have  a  fine,  natural  swing,"  said  the 
Colonel  in  a  tone  soft  as  corn  silk.  "A  trifle 
less  power,  my  friend,  and  you  will  get  better 
direction." 

Well,  it  was  too  much  for  me.  I  didn't  care 
much  for  Small,  but  I  hated  to  see  him  walk 
into  ambush  with  his  eyes  open.  I  left  him  and 
the  Colonel  hobnobbing  over  their  highballs, 
and  went  into  the  locker  room,  where  I  found 
Archie. 

"Look  here!"  I  said.  "That  old  pirate  is 
after  your  friend.  Colonel  Jimmy  heard  Small 
make  that  fool  bet  on  the  eighteenth  tee,  and 
you  know  what  a  leech  he  is  when  soft  money 
is  in  sight.  He's  after  him." 
[215] 


FORE  ! 

"So  soon?"  said  Archie.    "Quick  work." 

"Well,  don't  you  think  Small  ought  to  be 
Warned?" 

Archie  laughed. 

"Warned  about  what?" 

"Don't  be  more  of  an  ass  than  usual,  Archie. 
The  Colonel  has  got  him  out  there,  telling  him 
about  Chicago.  You  know  what  that  means, 
and  a  fellow  that  bets  as  recklessly  as  Small 
•  does " 

"I  can't  do  anything,"  said  Archie.  "Small 
is  of  age." 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  him  go  up  against  a 
cinch?" 

"Small  has  been  up  against  cinches  all  his 
life.  That's  how  he  made  his  money." 

"That's  how  he'll  lose  it,  too.  I'll  put  a  flea 
in  his  ear  if  you  don't." 

"Bill,"  said  Archie,  "I've  made  it  a  rule 
never  to  open  my  mouth  in  any  gambling  game 
unless  my  money  was  on  the  table.  Under 
stand?  Then,  whatever  happens,  there's  no 
comeback  at  me.  Think  it  over. ' ' 

"But  the  man  is  your  guest!" 

"Exactly.  He's  my  guest.  If  you  see  fit  to 

warn  him "  Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

1  Well,  what  could  I  say  after  that?  I  took 
my  shower  bath  and  dressed.  Then  I  went  into 
the  lounging  room.  Small  was,  if  anything,  a 
trifle  noisier  than  ever. 

"Any  game  that  I  can  bet  on  is  the  game  for 
[216] 


A    CURE    FOR    LUMBAGO 


me,"  said  he,  "but  I  hate  a  piker.    Don't  you 
hate  a  piker,  Colonel?" 

"A  man,"  said  Colonel  Jimmy,  "should 
never  bet  more  than  he  can  afford  to  lose — 
cheerfully." 

"Cheerfully.  That's  the  ticket!  You're  a 
sport,  Colonel.  I  can  see  it  in  your  eye.  You 
don't  holler  when  you  lose.  Now,  Colonel,  what 
would  you  consider  a  good  stiff  bet,  eh?  How 
high  would  you  go?  This  kindergarten  busi 
ness  wouldn't  appeal  to  either  one  of  us;  would 
it  ?  You  wait  till  I  go  around  this  course  a  few 
times  and  I'll  make  you  a  real  bet — one  that 
will  be  worth  playing  for,  eh?  What's  the  most 
you  ever  played  for,  Colonel?"  It  was  like 
casting  pearls  before  swine  and  he  wasn't  my 
guest,  but  I  did  what  I  could  for  him. 

"Mr.  Small,"  said  I,  "if  you're  going  in  to 
town  there 's  room  in  my  car  for  you. ' ' 

"Thanks.  I'm  stopping  here  at  the  club. 
Archie  fixed  me  up  with  a  room.  The  Colonel 
is  going  to  stay  and  have  dinner  with  me,  ain't 
you,  Colonel?  Surest  thing  you  know!  He's 
met  a  lot  of  friends  of  mine  out  "West.  Small 
world,  ain  't  it  ?  Going,  eh  ?  Well,  behave  your 
self!  .  .  .  Now  then,  Colonel,  gimme  a  few 
more  days  of  this  cow-pasture  pool  and  I'll 
show  you  what  a  real  bet  looks  like ! ' ' 

I  left  the  wolf  and  the  lamb  together,  and  I 
don't  mind  admitting  that  I  liked  one  as  well  as 
the  other. 

Business  took  me  out  of  town  for  ten  days, 
[217] 


FOEE! 

and  when  I  returned  home  I  was  told  that 
Archie  had  been  telephoning  me  all  the  morn 
ing.  I  rang  him  at  his  office. 

' '  Oh,  hello,  Bill !  You  're  back  just  in  time  for 
the  big  show.  .  .  .  Eh?  Oh,  Colonel  Jimmy  is 
due  for  another  attack  of  lumbago  this  after 
noon.  .  .  .  Small  telephoned  me  last  night  that 
he  was  complaining  a  little.  .  .  .  The  goat? 
Why,  Small,  of  course!  The  chinless  boy  is 
playing  alone  these  days;  better  pickings  else 
where.  .  .  .  Yes,  you  oughtn't  to  miss  it.  See 
you  later.  'Bye." 

IV 

Now,  very  little  happens  at  Meadowmead,  in 
the  clubhouse  or  on  the  links,  without  David 
Cameron's  knowledge.  The  waiters  talk,  the 
steward  gossips,  the  locker-room  boys  repeat 
conversations  which  they  overhear,  and  the 
caddies  are  worse  than  magpies.  David,  listen 
ing  patiently  and  rubbing  his  ear,  comes  by  a 
great  deal  of  interesting  information.  I  felt 
certain  that  he  would  have  a  true  line  on  the 
wool  market.  I  found  him  sitting  in  front  of  his 
shop.  He  was  wearing  a  collar  and  tie,  which 
is  always  a  sign  that  he  is  at  liberty  for  the 
afternoon.  "You're  dressed  up  to-day,  David," 
said  I. 

"Ay,"  said  he,  "I'm  thinkin'  I'll  be  a  gal 
lery." 

"Is  there  a  match!" 

[218] 


A   CURE   FOB   LUMBAGO 


"Ay,  a  money  match.  The  ter-rms  were 
agreed  on  at  eleven  this  mornin'.  The  Cur-r- 
nel  is  gruntin'  an'  groanin'  with  the  himba-ago 
again.  Muster  Small  has  taken  a  cruel  advan- 
take  of  the  auld  man.  A  cruel  advantage." 

"What  are  they  playing  for?"  I  asked. 

David  rolled  his  eyes  full  upon  me  and  re 
garded  me  steadily  without  blinking. 

"A  thousan'  dollars  a  side,"  said  he  quietly. 

"What?" 

"Ay.  Posted  in  the  safe.  Muster  Small 
wanted  to  make  it  for  two.  It  was  a  compr-ro- 
mise." 

"But,  man,  it's  highway  robbery!  One  thou 
sand  dollars!" 

David  continued  to  look  at  me  fixedly. 

"Do  ye  ken,  Muster  Bell,"  said  he  at  last, 
"that's  precisely  what  I'm  thinkin'  it  is  my- 
sel' — juist  highway  robbery." 

"What  handicap  is  he  giving  Small?" 

"None.  Muster  Small  wouldna  listen  to  it. 
He  said  the  Cur-rnel  was  a 'ready  handicapped 
wi'  auld  age,  lumba-ago,  an'  cauld  feet.  His 
remarks  wrere  quite  personal,  ye '11  understand, 
an'  he  counted  down  the  notes  on  the  table  an' 
blethered  an'  howled  an'  reminded  the  Cur- 
rnel  that  he  had  lost  three  hunder  to  him  the 
last  week.  The  auld  gentleman  was  fair  be- 
damned  an'  bullied  into  makin'  the  match,  an* 
he  was  in  such  a  towerin'  rage  he  could  scarce 
write  a  check.  .  .  .  Ay,  I'm  thinkin'  it  will  be 
a  divertin'  match  to  watch." 
[219] 


FORE! 

Archie  arrived  just  as  Small  and  Colonel 
Jimmy  started  for  the  first  tee.  We  formed 
the  gallery,  with  David  Cameron  trailing  along 
unobtrusively  in  the  rear,  sucking  reflectively 
on  a  briar  pipe.  The  Colonel  gave  us  one  look, 
which  said  very  plainly  that  he  hoped  we  would 
choke,  but  thought  better  of  it  and  dropped 
back  to  shake  hands  and  explain  his  position  in 
the  matter. 

"Pretty  stiff  money  match,  isn't  it,  Colonel?" 
asked  Archie. 

"And  surely  you're  not  playing  him  even!1' 
said  I.  "No  handicap  I ' ' 

Colonel  Jimmy  had  the  grace  to  blush;  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  he  knew  how.  I  sup 
pose  if  you  should  catch  a  wolf  in  a  sheepfold 
the  wolf  would  blush  too — not  because  he  felt 
that  he  was  doing  anything  wrong  by  his  own 
standards,  but  because  of  the  inferences  that 
might  be  drawn  from  the  wool  in  his  teeth.  The 
Colonel  didn't  in  the  least  mind  preying  on 
lambs,  but  he  hated  to  have  a  gallery  catch  him 
at  it.  He  hastened  to  explain  that  it  was  all 
the  lamb's  fault. 

He  said  that  he  found  himself  in  an  unfortu 
nate  situation  because  he  had  allowed  his  tem 
per  to  get  away  from  him  and  had  "answered 
a  fool  according  to  his  folly."  He  blamed 
Small  for  forcing  him  into  a  position  where 
he  might  falsely  be  accused  of  taking  an  unfair 
advantage.  He  whined  pitifully  about  his  lum 
bago — the  worst  attack  he  remembered — and 
[220] 


A    CURE   FOE   LUMBAGO 


earnestly  hoped  that  "the  facts  would  not  be 
misrepresented  in  any  way."  He  also  said 
that  he  regretted  the  entire  incident  and  had 
offered  to  call  off  the  match,  but  had  been 
grossly  insulted  and  accused  of  having  cold 
feet. 

"It  isn't  that  I  want  the  man's  money, " 
said  he, ' l  but  I  feel  that  he  should  have  a  lesson 
in  politeness!" 

On  the  whole,  it  was  a  very  poor  face  for  a 
wolf  to  wear.  He  groaned  some  more  about  his 
lumbago,  which  he  said  was  killing  him  by 
inches,  and  went  forward  to  join  Small  on  the 
tee. 

"The  old  pirate!"  said  Archie.  "He  wasn't 
counting  on  any  witnesses,  and  our  being  here 
is  going  to  complicate  matters.  Did  you  get 
what  he  said  about  hoping  the  facts  would  not 
be  misrepresented?  He's  wondering  what 
we'll  tell  the  other  members,  and  for  the  looks 
of  the  thing  he  won't  dare  rook  Small  too 
badly.  Our  being  here  will  force  him  to  make 
the  match  as  close  as  he  can. ' ' 

' '  Yes, ' '  said  I,  * '  there  ought  to  be  some  pretty 
fair  comedy. ' ' 

Small  came  over  to  us  while  the  Colonel  was 
teeing  his  ball.  He  looked  bigger  and  rawer 
than  ever  in  white  flannel,  and  he  didn't  seem 
in  the  least  worried  about  his  bet.  He  was  just 
as  offensive  as  ever,  and  I  could  appreciate  the 
Colonel's  point  about  giving  him  a  lesson  in 
politeness. 

[221] 


FOKE! 

As  early  as  the  first  hole  it  became  evident — 
painfully  so — that  Colonel  Jimmy  _  was  out  to 
make  the  match  a  close  one  at  any  cost.  It 
would  never  do  to  give  Small  the  impression 
that  his  pockets  had  been  picked.  In  order  to 
make  him  think  that  he  had  had  a  run  for  his 
money,  the  Colonel  had  to  play  as  bad  golf  as 
Small — and  he  did  it,  shades  of  Tom  Morris 
and  other  departed  golfers,  he  did  it! 

Bad  golf  is  a  depressing  spectacle  to  watch, 
but  deliberately  bad  golf,  cold-blooded,  pre 
meditated  and  studied  out  in  advance,  is  a 
crime,  and  that  is  the  only  word  which  fits  Colo 
nel  Jimmy's  shameless  exhibition.  His  only 
excuse  was  that  it  needed  criminally  bad  golf 
to  make  the  match  seem  close.  The  old  fel 
low's  driving  was  atrocious,  he  slopped  and 
flubbed  his  iron  shots  in  a  disgusting  manner, 
and  his  putting  would  have  disgraced  a  blind 
man.  Lumbago  was  his  alibi,  and  he  worked 
it  overtime  for  our  benefit.  After  every  shot 
he  would  drop  his  club,  clap  his  hands  on  his 
back,  and  groan  like  an  entire  hospital  ward. 

The  only  noticeable  improvement  in  Small's 
playing  was  that  he  managed  somehow  or  other 
to  keep  his  ball  on  the  course,  though  the  lop 
sided,  thumb-handed,  clubfooted  way  he  went 
at  his  shots  was  enough  to  make  angels  weep. 
Then,  too,  he  didn't  have  so  much  to  say  and 
didn't  yell  after  he  hit  the  ball. 

Thirteen  holes  they  played,  and  I  venture  the 
statement  that  nothing  like  that  match  has  ever 
[222] 


A    CURE   FOB    LUMBAGO 


been  seen  since  the  time  when  golf  balls  were 
stuffed  with  feathers.  By  playing  just  as  badly 
as  he  knew  how,  getting  into  all  the  bunkers, 
and  putting  everywhere  but  straight  at  the  cup, 
Colonel  Jimmy  arrived  on  the  fourteenth  tee 
all  square  with  Small.  They  had  each  won  two 
holes ;  the  others  had  been  halved  in  scandalous 
figures. 

i  I  could  tell  by  the  way  the  Colonel  messed  the 
fourteenth  hole  that  he  wanted  to  halve  that 
too.  He  certainly  didn't  try  to  win  it.  Small's 
fifth  shot  was  in  the  long  grass  just  off  the  edge 
and  to  the  right  of  the  putting  green.  Colonel 
Jimmy  laid  his  sixth  within  three  feet  of  the 
cup. 

"Boy,  give  me  that  shovel!"  said  Small,  and 
the  caddie  handed  him  a  niblick.  It  wasn't 
really  a  bad  lie,  but  the  ball  had  to  be  chopped 
out  of  three  inches  of  grass. 
!  "  In  a  case  of  this  kind, ' '  said  Small, ' '  I  guess 
you  trust  to  luck,  what!"  He  played  a  short 
chop  shot  and  the  ball  went  hopping  toward  the 
pin,  hit  the  back  of  the  cup  with  a  plunk,  and 
dropped  for  a  six.  Of  course  it  was  a  pure  acci 
dent. 

"Fluke!"  said  Colonel  Jimmy,  rather  an 
noyed. 

"Sure!"  said  Small.    "But  it  wins  the  hole 
just  the  same!" 

I  knew  then  that  the  comedy  was  over  for  the 
day.     Four  holes  remained  to  be  played,  and 
the  Colonel  was  one  down.    It  was  never  his 
[223] 


FORE! 

policy  to  leave  anything  to  chance.  He  would 
run  the  string  out  at  top  speed.  David  Cam 
eron  came  up  from  the  rear. 

" They '11  play  golf  from  here  in,"  he  whis 
pered. 

' '  They ! '  '  said  I.    ' l  One  of  'em  will ! ' ' 

"Do  ye  really  think  so?"  said  David. 

Our  Number  Fifteen  is  278  yards  long,  over 
perfectly  level  ground.  There  are  bunkers  to 
the  right  and  left  of  the  putting  green  and  a 
deep  sand  trap  behind  it.  It  is  a  short  hole,  but 
the  sort  of  one  which  needs  straight  shooting 
and  an  accurate  pitch.  Of  all  the  holes  on  the 
course,  I  think  it  is  the  Colonel's  favourite. 

"My  honour,  eh?"  said  Small.  "That  being 
the  case,  I  guess  I'll  just  rap  it  out  of  the  lot!" 

He  didn't  bother  to  measure  the  distance  or 
take  a  practice  swing.  He  didn't  even  address 
the  ball.  He  walked  up  to  it  and  swung  his 
driver  exactly  as  a  man  would  swing  a  baseball 
bat — tremendous  power  but  no  form  whatever 
— and  the  wonder  is  that  he  hit  it  clean.  A 
white  speck  went  sailing  up  the  course,  rising 
higher  and  higher  in  the  air.  When  the  ball 
stopped  rolling  it  was  260  yards  from  the  tee 
and  on  a  direct  line  with  the  pin. 

"Beat  that!"  said  Small. 

Colonel  Jimmy  didn't  say  anything,  but  he 
grunted  whole  volumes.  It  takes  more  than  a 
long  drive  to  rattle  that  old  reprobate.  He 
whipped  his  ball  200  yards  down  the  course  and 
stepped  off  the  tee  so  well  satisfied  with  him- 
[224] 


A    CURE    FOB   LUMBAGO 


self  that  lie  forgot  to  groan  and  put  his  hands 
on  his  back.    Small  laughed. 

"Lumbago  not  so  bad  now,  eh?"  said  he. 

"I — I  may  be  limbering  up  a  bit,"  said  the 
Colonel.  "The  long  drive  isn't  everything,  you 
know;  it's  the  second  shot  that  counts!" 

"All  right,"  said  Small.    "Let's  see  one!" 

Colonel  Jimmy  studied  his  lie  for  some  time 
and  went  through  all  the  motions,  but  when  the 
shot  came  it  was  a  beauty — a  mashie  pitch 
which  landed  his  ball  five  feet  from  the  cup. 

"Beat  that  one!"  said  he. 

"I'll  just  do  that  thing!"  said  Small.  And 
he  did.  Of  course  he  had  a  short  approach,  as 
approaches  go,  but  even  so  I  was  not  prepared 
to  see  him  play  a  push  shot  and  rim  the  cup, 
leaving  his  ball  stone  dead  for  a  three.  Colonel 
Jimmy  was  not  prepared  to  see  it  either,  and  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  the  push  shot  jarred 
the  old  rascal  from  his  rubber  heels  upward. 
He  went  about  the  sinking  of  that  five-foot  putt 
with  as  much  deliberation  as  if  his  thousand 
dollars  depended  on  it.  He  sucked  in  his  breath 
and  got  down  on  all  fours — a  man  with  lumbago 
couldn't  have  done  it  on  a  bet — and  he  studied 
the  roll  of  the  turf  for  a  full  minute — studied  it 
to  some  purpose,  for  when  he  tapped  the  ball  it 
ran  straight  and  true  into  the  cup,  halving  the 
hole. 

"You're  getting  better  every  minute!"  said 
Small.  "I'm  some  little  lumbago  specialist, 
believe  me!" 

[225] 


FORE! 

Colonel  Jimmy  didn't  answer,  but  he  looked 
thoughtful  and  just  the  least  mite  worried. 
One  down  and  three  to  go  for  a  thousand  dol 
lars — it's  a  situation  that  will  w^orry  the  best 
of  'em. 

Number  Sixteen  was  where  the  light  dawned 
on  me.  It  is  a  long,  tricky  hole — bogey  6,  par  5 
— and  if  the  Colonel  hadn't  made  another  phe 
nomenal  approach,  laying  his  ball  dead  from 
fifty  yards  off  the  green,  Small  would  have  won 
that  too.  They  halved  in  fives,  but  it  was 
Small's  second  shot  that  opened  my  eyes.  He 
used  a  cleek  where  most  players  would  try  a 
brassie,  and  he  sent  the  ball  screaming  toward 
the  flag — 220  yards — and  at  no  time  was  it 
more  than  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  I  was 
behind  him  when  he  played,  and  I  can  swear 
that  there  wasn't  an  inch  of  hook  or  slice  on 
that  ball.  The  cleek  is  no  club  for  a  novice.  I 
remembered  the  niblick  shot  on  the  fourteenth. 
That  was  surely  a  fluke,  but  how  about  the  push 
shot  on  fifteen?  English  professionals  have 
written  whole  books  about  the  push  shot,  but 
mighty  few  men  have  ever  learned  to  play  it. 
Putting  that  and  the  cleek  shot  together,  the 
light  broke  in  on  me — and  my  first  impulse  was 
to  kick  Archie  MacBride. 

I  don't  know  who  Colonel  Jimmy  wanted  to 
kick,  but  he  looked  as  if  he  would  relish  kicking 
somebody.  He  had  been  performing  sums  in 
mental  addition,  too,  and  he  got  the  answer 
about  the  same  time  that  I  did. 
[22C] 


A    CURE    FOB   LUMBAGO 


"It's  queer  about  that  lumbago,"  said  Small 
again. 

"Yes,"  snapped  the  old  man,  "but  it's  a  lot 
queerer  the  way  you've  picked  up  this  game  in 
the  last  two  holes!" 

"Well,"  and  Small  laughed,  "you  remember 
that  I  warned  you  I  never  could  play  for  piker 
money,  Colonel — that  is,  not  very  well." 

Colonel  Jimmy  gave  him  a  look  that  was  all 
;wolf — and  cornered  wolf  at  that.  He  answered 
Small  with  a  nasty  sneer. 

"So  you  can't  play  well  unless  big  money  is 
bet,  eh?  That  is  exactly  what  I'm  beginning  to 
think,  sir!" 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Small,  "I've  cured  your 
lumbago  for  you,  Colonel.  You  can  charge  that 
thousand  to  doctor  bills !" 

Colonel  Jimmy  gulped  a  few  times,  his  neck 
swelled  and  his  face  turned  purple.  There 
wasn't  a  single  thing  he  could  find  to  say  in 
answer  to  that  remark.  He  started  for  the  sev 
enteenth  tee,  snarling  to  himself.  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer.  I  drew  Archie  aside. 

"I  think  you  might  have  told  me,"  I  said. 

"Told  you  what?" 

"Why,  about  Small — if  that's  his  name. 
What  have  you  done?  Bung  in  a  professional 
on  the  old  man?" 

"Professional,  your  grandmother!"  said 
Archie.  "Small  is  an  amateur  in  good  stand 
ing.  Darned  good  standing.  If  the  Colonel 
knew  as  much  about  the  Middle  West  as  he  pre- 
[227] 


FOKE! 

tends  to  know,  he'd  have  heard  of  Small.  "Won 
der  how  the  old  boy  likes  the  Chicago  method 
of  shearing  a  pig?" 

The  old  boy  didn't  like  it  at  all,  but  the  sev 
enteenth  hole  put  the  crown  on  his  rage  and 
mortification.  Small  drove  another  long 
straight  ball,  and  after  the  Colonel  had  got 
through  sneering  about  that  he  topped  his  own 
drive,  slopped  his  second  into  a  bunker,  and 
reached  the  green  in  five  when  he  should  have 
been  there  in  two.  I  thought  the  agony  was 
over,  but  I  didn't  give  Small  credit  for  cat-and- 
mouse  tendencies. 

"In  order  to  get  all  the  good  out  of  this  lum 
bago  treatment,"  said  he,  "it  ought  to  go  the 
full  eighteen  holes. ' '  Then,  with  a  deliberation 
that  was  actually  insulting,  he  played  his  sec 
ond  shot  straight  into  a  deep  sand  trap.  I 
heard  a  queer  clucking,  choking  noise  behind 
me,  but  it  was  only  David  Cameron  doing  his 
best  to  keep  from  laughing  out  loud. 

"Muster  Small  is  puttin'  the  shoe  on  the 
other  foot!"  said  David.  "Ay,  it's  his  turn  to 
waste  a  few  now. ' ' 

"Cheer  up,  Colonel!"  said  Small.  "You 
fooled  away  a  lot  of  shots  early  in  the  match — 
on  account  of  your  lumbago,  of  course.  I'm 
just  as  generous  as  you  are  when  it  comes  to 
halving  holes  with  an  easy  mark."  To  prove  it 
Small  missed  a  niblick  shot  a  foot,  but  pitched 
out  on  his  fourth,  and,  by  putting  all  over  the 
green,  finally  halved  the  hole. 
[228] 


A    CURE    FOR   LUMBAGO 


When  Small  stood  up  on  the  eighteenth  tee 
for  his  last  drive  he  looked  over  at  the  Colonel 
and  nodded  his  head.  "Colonel!"  said  he. 

Colonel  Jimmy  grunted — rather  a  profane 
grunt,  I  thought. 

"Dormie!"  said  Small. 

' '  Confound  it,  sir !    You  talk  too  much ! ' ' 

"Sol  Ve  heard, ' '  said  Small.  "  I'll  make  you 
a  business  proposition,  Colonel.  Double  or 
quits  on  the  last  hole?  I  understand  that's 
what  you  do  when  you're  sure  you  can  win., 
Two  thousand  or  nothing!  ...  No?  Oh,  all 
right!  No  harm  done,  I  suppose?" 

Colonel  Jimmy  had  a  burglar's  chance  to 
halve  the  match  by  winning  the  last  hole,  and  he 
fought  for  it  like  a  cornered  wolf.  They  were- 
both  on  the  green  in  threes,  Small  ten  feet  from 
the  cup  and  the  Colonel  at  least  fifteen.  If  he 
could  sink  his  putt  and  Small  should  miss  his, 
the  match  would  be  square  again. 

The  old  man  examined  every  blade  of  grass 
between  his  ball  and  the  hole.  Three  times  he 
set  himself  to  make  the  putt,  and  then  got  down 
to  take  another  look  at  the  roll  of  the  green — 
proof  that  his  nerve  was  breaking  at  last. 
When  he  finally  hit  the  ball  it  was  a  weak,  flut 
tering  stroke,  and  though  the  ball  rolled  true 
enough,  it  stopped  four  feet  short  of  the  cup. 

"Never  up,  never  in!"  said  Small.     "Well, 

here  goes  for  the  thousand-dollar  doctor  bill  I 

Lumbago  is  a  very  painful  ailment,  Colonel. 

It's  worth  something  to  be  cured  of  it."    Colo- 

[229] 


FORE! 

nel  Jimmy  didn't  say  a  word.  He  looked  at 
Small  and  then  he  turned  and  looked  at  Mac- 
Bride.  All  his  smooth  and  oily  politeness  had 
deserted  him;  his  little  tricks  and  hypocrisies 
had  dropped  away  and  left  the  wolf  exposed — 
snarling  and  showing  his  teeth.  I  thought  that 
he  was  going  to  throw  his  putter  at  Archie,  but 
he  turned  and  threw  it  into  the  lake  instead — 
into  the  middle,  where  the  water  is  deep.  Then 
he  marched  into  the  clubhouse,  stiff  as  a  ram 
rod,  and  so  he  missed  seeing  Small  sink  his  ten- 
foot  putt. 

"An'  ye  were  really  surprised?"  said  David 
Cameron  to  me. 

"I  was,"  said  I.  "When  did  you  find  it  out, 
David?" 

"Come  out  to  the  shop,"  said  the  profes 
sional.  He  showed  me  a  list  of  the  players 
rated  by  the  Western  Golf  Association.  A  man 
by  the  name  of  Small  was  very  close  to  the  top 
— very  close  indeed. 

We  don't  know  whether  the  Colonel  is  going 
to  lay  the  case  before  the  committee  or  not.  If 
he  does,  we  shall  have  to  explain  why  he  has 
not  had  an  attack  of  lumbago  since. 


[230] 


THE  MAN  WHO  QUIT 


ME.  INGRAM  TECUMSEH  PAEKES 
squinted  along  the  line  of  his  short 
putt,  breathed  hard  through  his  prom 
inent  and  highly  decorative  nose,  con 
centrated  his  mighty  intellect  upon  the  task  be 
fore  him,  and  tapped  the  small  white  ball  ever 
so  lightly.    It  rolled  toward  the  cup,  wavered 
from  the  line,  returned  to  it  again,  seemed  about 
to  stop  short  of  its  destination,  hovered  for  one 
breathless  instant  on  the  very  lip,  and  at  last 
fell  into  the  hole. 

Mr.  Parkes,  who  had  been  hopping  up  and 
down  on  one  leg,  urging  the  ball  forward  with 
inarticulate  commands  and  violent  contortions 
of  his  body,  and  behaving  generally  in  the  man 
ner  of  a  baseball  fan  or  a  financially  interested 
spectator  at  a  horse  race,  suddenly  relaxed  with 
a  deep  grunt  of  relief.  He  glanced  at  his  op 
ponent — a  tall,  solemn-looking  gentleman — who 
was  regarding  Mr.  Parkes  wTith  an  unblinking 
stare  in  which  disgust,  chagrin  and  fathomless 
melancholy  were  mingled. 
[231] 


FORE! 
it" 


'Well,  that'll  be  about  all  for  you,  Mister 
Good  Player!"  announced  Parkes  with  rather 
more  gusto  than  is  considered  tactful  at  such  a 
time.  ''Yes;  that  cooks  your  goose,  I  guess! 
Three  down  and  two  to  go,  and  I  licked  you" — 
here  his  voice  broke  and  became  shrill  with 
triumph.  '  *  I  licked  you  on  an  even  game !  An 
even  game — d'you  get  that,  Bob?  Didn't  have 
to  use  my  handicap  at  all !  Ho,  ho !  Licked  a 
six-handicap  man  on  an  even  game!  That's 
pretty  good  shooting,  I  guess !  You  didn  't  think 
I  had  it  in  me,  did  you  ? ' ' 

The  other  man  did  not  reply,  but  continued  to 
stare  moodily  at  Mr.  Parkes.  He  did  not  even 
seem  to  be  listening.  After  a  time  the  victor 
became  aware  of  a  certain  tenseness  in  the  situ 
ation.  His  stream  of  self-congratulation  checked 
to  a  thin  trickle  and  at  last  ran  dry.  There  was 
a  short,  painful  silence. 

"I  don't  want  to  rub  it  in,  or  anything,"  said 
Parkes  apologetically;  "but  I've  got  a  right  to 
swell  up  a  little.  You'll  admit  that.  I  didn't 
think  I  had  a  chance  when  we  started,  and  I 
never  trimmed  a  six-handicap  man  before " 

' '  Oh,  that 's  all  right ! ' '  said  the  other  with  the 
nervous  gesture  of  one  who  brushes  away  an  un 
pleasant  subject.  "Holler  your  fat  head  off — I 
don't  care.  Give  yourself  a  loud  cheer  while 
you're  at  it.  I'm  not  paying  any  attention  to 
you." 

Mr.  Parkes  was  not  exactly  pleased  with  the 
permission  thus  handsomely  granted. 

[232] 


THE    MA1ST    WHO    QUIT 


"No  need  for  you  to  get  sore  about  it,"  was 
the  sulky  comment. 

The  vanquished  golfer  cackled  long  and  loudy 
but  there  was  a  bitter  undertone  in  his  mirth. 

"Sore?  Who,  me?  Just  because  a  lopsided, 
left-handed  freak  like  you  handed  me  a  licking? 
Where  do  you  get  that  stuff?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Parkes,  still  aggrieved,  "if 
you're  not  sore  you'd  better  haul  in  the  signs. 
Your  lower  lip  is  sticking  out  a  foot  and  you 
look  as  if  you'd  lost  your  last  friend." 

"I've  lost  every  shot  in  my  bag,"  was  the 
solemn  reply.  "I've  lost  my  game.  You  don't 
know  what  that  means,  because  you've  never 
had  any  game  to  lose.  It's  awful — awful!" 

"Forget  it!"  advised  Parkes.  "Everybody 
has  a  bad  day  once  in  a  while." 

"You  don't  understand,"  persisted  the  other 
earnestly.  "A  month  ago  I  was  breaking 
eighties  as  regular  as  clockwork,  and  every 
club  I  had  was  working  fine.  Then,  all  at  once, 
something  went  wrong — my  shots  left  me.  I 
couldn't  drive  any  more ;  couldn't  keep  my  irons 
on  the  course — couldn't  do  anything.  I  kept 
plugging  away,  thinking  my  game  would  come 
back  to  me,  hoping  every  shot  I  made  that  there 
would  be  some  improvement;  but  I'm  getting 
worse  instead  of  better!  Nobody  knows  any 
more  about  the  theory  of  golf  than  I  do,  but 
I  can't  seem  to  make  myself  do  the  right  thing 
at  the  right  time.  I've  changed  my  stance; 
I've  changed  my  grip;  I've  changed  my  swing; 
[233] 


FOKE! 

I've  never  tried  harder  in  my  life — and  look  at 
me!  I  can't  even  give  an  eighteen-handicap 
man  a  battle ! ' ' 

' '  Forget  it ! "  repeated  Parkes.  ' '  The  trouble 
with  you  is  that  you  worry  too  much  about  your 
golf.  It  isn't  a  business,  you  poor  fish!  It's 
a  sport — a  recreation.  I  get  off  my  game  every 
once  in  a  while,  but  I  never  worry.  It  always 
comes  back  to  me.  Last  Sunday  I  was  rotten; 
to-day " 

"To-day  you  shot  three  sevens  and  a  whole 
flock  of  sixes!  Bah!  I  suppose  you  call  that 
good— eh?" 

' '  Never  you  mind ! ' '  barked  the  indignant  Mr. 
Parkes.  "  Never  you  mind !  Those  sevens  and 
sixes  were  plenty  good  enough  to  lick  you! 
Come  on,  take  a  reef  in  your  underlip  and  we  '11 
play  the  last  two  holes.  The  match  is  over,  so 
you  won't  have  that  to  worry  about." 

"You  don't  get  me  at  all,"  protested  the 
loser.  "Not  being  a  golfer  yourself,  you  can't 
understand  a  golfer's  feelings.  It's  not  being 
beaten  that  troubles  me.  It's  knowing  just  how 
to  make  a  shot  and  then  falling  down  on  the 
execution — that's  what  breaks  my  heart!  If 
ever  you  get  so  good  that  you  can  shoot  a  seven 
ty-eight  on  this  course,  and  your  game  leaves 
you  overnight — steps  right  out  from  under  you 
and  leaves  you  flat — then  you'll  know  how  I 
feel." 

"There  you  go!"  complained  Parkes. 
"Knocking  my  game  again!  I'm  a  bad  player 
[234] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


— oh,  a  rotten  player!  I  admit  it;  but  I  can 
lick  you  to-day.  And  just  to  prove  it  I'll  bet 
you  a  ball  a  hole  from  here  in — no  handicap — 
not  even  a  bisque.  What  say?" 

' '  Got  you ! ' '  was  the  grim  response.  '  *  Maybe 
if  I  hit  one  of  my  old-time  tee  shots  again  it'll 
put  some  heart  in  me.  Shoot!" 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  two  men  walked 
across  the  broad  lawn  toward  the  clubhouse. 
Mr.  Ingram  Tecumseh  Parkes  was  in  a  hilarious 
mood.  He  grinned  from  ear  to  ear  and  illus 
trated  an  animated  discourse  with  sweeping  ges 
tures.  His  late  opponent  shuffled  slowly  along 
beside  him,  kicking  the  inoffending  daisies  out 
of  his  way.  His  shoulders  sagged  listlessly,  his 
hands  hung  open  at  his  sides,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  ground.  Utter  dejection  was  writ 
ten  in  every  line  and  angle  of  his  drooping  form. 
When  he  entered  the  lounging  room  he  threw 
himself  heavily  into  the  nearest  chair  and  re 
mained  motionless,  staring  out  of  the  window 
but  seeing  nothing. 

"What's  the  matter,  Bob?  You  sick?"  The 
.query  was  twice  repeated  before  the  stricken 
man  lifted  his  head  slightly  and  turned  his  lack 
lustre  eyes  upon  a  group  of  friends  seated  at  a 
table  close  at  hand. 

.  "Eh?  What's  that?  .  .  .  Yes;  I'm  sick. 
Sick  and  disgusted  with  this  double-dash- 
blanked  game." 

Now  there  comes  to  every  experienced  golfer 
[235] 


FORE! 

a  time  when  from  a  full  heart  he  curses  the 
Eoyal  and  Ancient  Pastime.  Mr.  Robert 
Coyne's  friends  were  experienced  golfers;  con 
sequently  his  statement  was  received  with  calm 
ness — not  to  say  a  certain  amount  of  levity. 

"We've  all  been  there!"  chuckled  one  of  the 
listeners. 

"Many's  the  time!"  supplemented  another. 

"Last  week,"  admitted  a  third,  "I  broke  a 
driver  over  a  tee  box.  I'd  been  slicing  with  it 
for  a  month,1  so  I  smashed  the  damned  shaft. 
Did  me  a  lot  of  good.  Of  course,  Bob,  you're 
a  quiet,  even-tempered  individual,  and  you  can't 
understand  what  a  relief  it  is  a  break  a  club 
that  has  been  annoying  you.  Try  it  some  time. ' ' 

' '  Humph ! ' '  grunted  Mr.  Coyne.  * '  I  'd  have  to 
break  'em  all!" 

"Maybe  you  don't  drink  enough,"  hazarded 
another. 

' '  Cheer  up ! "  said  the  first  speaker.  ' '  You '11 
be  all  right  this  afternoon." 

The  afflicted  one  lifted  his  head  again  and 
gazed  mournfully  at  his  friends. 

"No,"  said  he;  "I  won't  be  all  right  this  aft 
ernoon.  I'll  be  all  wrong.  I  haven't  hit  a  single 
decent  shot  in  three  weeks — not  one.  I — I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter  with  me.  I'm  sick  of 
it,  I  tell  you." 

"Yep;  he's  sick,"  chirped  the  cheerful  Mr. 
Parkes,  coming  in  like  an  April  zephyr.  "He's 
sick,  and  I  made  him  sicker.  I'm  a  rotten-bad 
golfer — ask  Bob  if  I  ain't.  I'm  left-handed; 

[236] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


I  stand  too  close  to  my  ball;  I  hook  every  tee 
shot ;  I  top  my  irons ;  I  can't  hole  a  ten-foot  putt 
in  a  washtub;  but,  even  so,  I  handed  this  six 
man  a  fine  trimming  this  morning.  Hung  it  all 
over  him  like  a  blanket.  Beat  him  three  and 
two  without  any  handicap.  Licked  him  on  an 
even  game;  but  I  couldn't  make  him  like  it. 
What  do  you  think  of  that,  eh?" 

"How  about  it,  Bob?"  asked  one  of  the  lis 
teners.  "Is  this  a  true  bill?"  Mr.  Coyne 
groaned  and  continued  to  stare  out  of  the  win 
dow. 

"Oh,  he  won't  deny  it!"  grinned  Parkes. 
"I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight.  Then,  at  Num 
ber  Seventeen  I  offered  to  bet  him  a  ball  a  hole, 
just  to  put  some  life  into  him  and  stir  up  his — 
er — cupidity.  I  guess  that's  the  word.  No 
handicap,  you  understand.  Not  even  a  bisque. 
What  did  he  do  ?  Why,  he  speared  a  nice  juicy 
nine  on  Seventeen;  and  he  picked  up  his  ball 
on  Eighteen,  after  slicing  one  square  into  the 
middle  of  Hell 's  Half  Acre.  Yes ;  he 's  sick  all 
right  enough!" 

"He  has  cause — if  you  beat  him,"  said  one 
of  the  older  members. 

1 '  I  wish  I  could  win  from  a  well  man  once  in 
a  while,"  complained  Parkes.  "Every  time  I 
lick  somebody  I  find  I've  been  picking  on  an 
invalid. ' ' 

"Oh,  shut  up  and  let  Bob  alone!" 

"Yes;  quit  riding  him." 

"Don't  rub  it  in!" 

[237] 


FOKE! 

Mr.  Coyne  mumbled  something  to  the  effect 
that  talk  never  bothered  him,  and  the  general 
conversation  languished  until  the  devil  himself 
prompted  one  of  the  veteran  golfers  to  offer 
advice : 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  wrong  with  you,  Bob. 
You're  overgolfed.  You've  been  playing  too 
much  lately." 

" You've  gone  stale,"  said  another. 

"Nonsense!"  argued  a  third.  "You  don't  go 
stale  at  golf;  you  simply  get  off  your  game. 
Now  wrhat  Bob  ought  to  do  is  to  take  one  club 
and  a  dozen  balls  and  stay  with  that  club  until 
he  gets  his  shots  back." 

"That's  no  good,"  said  a  fourth.  "If  his 
wood  has  gone  bad  on  him  he  ought  to  leave 
his  driver  in  his  bag  and  use  an  iron  off  the 
tee.  Chick  Evans  does  that." 

"An  iron  off  the  tee,"  said  the  veteran,  "is  a 
confession  of  weakness." 

"Bob,  why  don't  you  get  the  'pro*  to  give  you 
a  lesson  or  two  ?  He  might  be  able  to  straighten 
you  out." 

"Oh,  what  does  a  professional  know  about  the 
theory  of  golf  I  All  he  can  do  is  to  tell  you 
to  watch  him  and  do  the  way  he  does.  Now  what 
Bob  needs " 

Every  man  who  plays  golf,  no  matter  how 
badly,  feels  himself  competent  to  offer  advice. 
For  a  long  ten  minutes  the  air  was  heavy  with 
well-meant  suggestions.  Coming  at  the  wrong 
time,  nothing  is  more  galling  than  sympathetic 
[238] 


THE    MAX    WHO    QUIT 


counsel.  Bob  Coyne,  six-handicap  man  and  ex 
pert  in  the  theory  of  golf,  hunched  his  shoul 
ders  and  endured  it  all  without  comment  or 
protest.  Somewhere  in  his  head  an  idea  was 
taking  definite  shape.  Slowly  but  surely  he 
was  being  urged  to  the  point  where  decision 
merges  into  action. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  veteran  with  the  calm 
insistence  of  age,  "Bob  ought  to  take  a  lay-off. 
He  ought  to  forget  golf  for  a  while." 

Coyne  rose  and  moved  toward  the  door.  As 
his  hand  touched  the  knob  the  irrepressible 
Parkes  hurled  the  last  straw  athwart  a  heavy 
burden. 

"If  ever  I  get  so  that  I  can't  enjoy  this  game 
any  more,"  said  he,  "I  hope  I'll  have  strength 
of  character  enough  to  quit  playing  it." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?"  demanded  Coyne  with 
the  cold  rage  of  a  quiet  man,  goaded  beyond 
the  limit  of  his  endurance.  "Well,  don't  natter 
yourself.  You  haven't — and  you  won't!" 

The  door  closed  behind  this  rather  cryptic 
remark,  and  the  listeners  looked  at  each  other 
and  shook  their  heads. 

"Never  knew  Bob  to  act  like  this  before," 
said  one. 

"Anything  can  happen  when  a  man's  game 
is  in  a  slump,"  said  the  veteran.  "Take  a 
steady,  brainy  player — a  first-class  golfer;  let 
him  lose  his  shots  for  a  week  and  there's  no 
telling  what  he  '11  do.  Nothing  to  it — this  is  the 

[239] 


FORE! 

most  interesting  and  the  most  exasperating  out 
door  sport  in  the  world. 

"Just  when  you  think  you've  learned  all 
there  is  to  learn  about  it — bang!  And  there 
you  are,  flat!" 

"He's  been  wolfing  at  me  all  morning,"  said 
Parkes.  "Kind  of  silly  to  let  a  game  get  on 
your  nerves,  eh!" 

"You'll  never  know  how  a  real  golfer  feels 
when  his  shots  go  bad  on  him,"  was  the  con 
soling  response.  "There  he  goes  with  his  bag 
of  clubs.  Practice  won't  help  him  any.  What 
he  needs  is  a  lay-off." 

"He's  headed  for  the  caddie  shed,"  said 
Parkes.  "I'd  hate  to  carry  his  bag  this  after 
noon.  Be  afraid  he'd  bite  me,  or  something. 
.  .  .  Say,  have  you  fellows  heard  about  the  two 
Scotchmen,  playing  in  the  finals  for  a  cup!  It 
seems  that  MacNabb  lost  his  ball  on  the  last 
hole,  and  MacGregor  was  helping  him  look  for 
it " 


, . 


!I  always  did  like  that  yarn,"  interrupted 
the  veteran.  "It's  just  as  good  now  as  it  was 
twenty  years  ago.  Shoot ! ' ' 

A  dozen  caddies  were  resting  in  the  shed, 
and  as  they  rested  they  listened  to  the  lively 
comment  of  the  dean  of  the  bag-carrying  pro 
fession,  a  sixteen-year-old  golfing  Solomon  who 
answered  to  the  name  of  Butch: 

"And  you  oughta  seen  him  at  the  finish — all 
he  needed  was  an  undertaker!  You  know  how 
[240] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


good  he  used  to  be.  Straight  down  the  middle 
all  the  time.  The  poor  sucker  has  blowed  every 
shot  in  his  bag — darned  if  it  wasn't  pitiful  to 
watch  him.  He  ain't  even  got  his  chip  shot 
left.  And  on  the  last  hole " 

"S-s-s-t!"  whispered  a  youngster,  glancing 
in  the  direction  of  the  clubhouse.  ''Here  he 
comes  now ! ' ' 

Because  Mr.  Coyne's  game  had  been  the  sub 
ject  of  full  and  free  discussion,  and  because  they 
did  not  wish  him  to  know  it,  every  trace  of  ex 
pression  vanished  instantly  from  the  twelve 
youthful  faces.  The  first  thing  a  good  caddie 
learns  is  repression.  Twelve  wooden  counte 
nances  turned  to  greet  the  visitor.  His  pres 
ence  in  the  caddie  shed  was  unusual,  but  even 
this  fact  failed  to  kindle  the  light  of  interest  in 
the  eye  of  the  youngest  boy.  Coyne  gave  them 
small  time  to  wonder  what  brought  him  into 
their  midst. 

"Butch,"  said  he,  speaking  briskly  and  with 
an  air  of  forced  cheerfulness,  "if  you  had  a 
chance  to  pick  a  club  out  of  this  bag,  which  one 
would  you  take  ? ' ' 

"If  I  had  a  wliatV  asked  Butch,  pop-eyed 
with  amazement. 

"Which  one  of  these  clubs  do  you  like  the 
best?" 

*  *  Why,  the  light  mid-iron,  sir, ' '  answered  the 
boy  without  an  instant's  hesitation.  ' '  The  light 
mid-iron,  sure!" 

Mr.  Coyne  drew  the  club  from  the  bag. 
[241] 


FOKE! 

"It's  yours,"  said  he  briefly. 

' '  Mine ! ' '  ejaculated  Butch.  ' '  You — you  ain 't 
giving  it  to  me,  are  you?"  Coyne  nodded. 
"But — but  what's  the  idea?  You  can't  get 
along-  without  that  iron,  sir.  You  ise  it  more 
than  any  other  club  in  your  bag ! ' ' 

"Take  it  if  you  want  it,  Butch.  I'm  going  to 
quit  playing  golf." 

"Yes,  you  are!"  exclaimed  the  caddie,  avail 
ing  himself  of  one  of  the  privileges  of  long  ac 
quaintance.  "Nobody  ever  quits  unless  they 
get  so  old  they  can't  walk!" 

"Very  well,"  said  Coyne.  "If  you  don't 
want  this  club,  maybe  some  of  these  other 
boys " 

"Not  a  chance!"  cried  Butch,  seizing  the 

mid-iron.    "I  didn't  think  you  meant  it  at  first. 
j » 

"Now  then,  Frenchy,"  said  Coyne,  "which 
club  will  you  have?" 

"This  is  on  the  square,  is  it?"  demanded 
Frenchy  suspiciously.  "This  ain't  Injun  giv- 
in'?  Because — me,  I  had  my  eye  on  that  brassy 
for  some  time  now.  Weighted  just  right.  Got 
a  swell  shaft  in  it.  ...  Thank  you,  mister! 
Gee!  "What  do  think  of  that— hey?  Some 
club!" 

At  this  point  the  mad  philanthropist  was 
mobbed  by  a  group  of  eager  youngsters,  each 
one  clamouring  to  share  in  his  reckless  gener 
osity.  So  far  as  the  boys  knew,  the  situation 
was  without  parallel  in  golfing  history ;  but  this 

[242] 


THE    MAX    WHO    QUIT 


was  a  phase  of  the  matter  that  could  come  up 
later  for  discussion.  The  main  thing  was  to 
get  one  of  those  clubs  while  the  getting  was 
good. 

''Please,  can  I  have  that  driver?" 

"Aw,  mister,  you  know  me!" 

"The  mashie  would  be  my  pick!" 

"Who  ast  you  to  pick  anything,  Dago  I  You 
ain't  got  an  old  brass  putter  there,  have  you, 
sir?  All  my  life  I  been  wantin'  a  brass  put 
ter." 

' '  Gimme  the  one  that 's  left  over  f "  "  Quitcha 
shovin',  there!  That's  a  mighty  fine  cleek. 
Wishtlhadit!" 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it  the  bag 
was  empty.  The  entire  collection  of  golfing 
instruments,  representing  the  careful  and  dis 
criminating  accumulation  of  years,  passed  into 
new  hands.  Everybody  knows  that  no  two  golf 
clubs  are  exactly  alike,  and  that  a  favourite, 
once  lost  or  broken,  can  never  be  replaced.  A 
perfect  club  possesses  something  more  than 
proper  weight  and  balance;  it  has  personality 
and  is,  therefore,  not  to  be  picked  up  every  day 
in  the  week.  The  driver,  the  spoon,  the  cleek, 
the  heavy  mid-iron,  the  jigger,  the  mashie,  the 
scarred  old  niblick,  the  two  putters — everything 
was  swept  away  in  one  wild  spasm  of  renun 
ciation  ;  and  if  it  hurt  Coyne  to  part  with  these 
old  friends  he  bore  the  pain  like  a  Spartan. 
"Well,  I  guess  that'll  be  all,"  said  he  at  length. 

"Mr.  Coyne,"  said  Butch,  who  had  been  prac- 
[243] 


FORE! 

tising  imaginary  approach  shots  with  the  light 
mid-iron,  "you  wouldn't  care  if  I  had  about  an 
inch  taken  off  this  shaft,  would  you?  It's  a  lit 
tle  too  long  for  me." 

1 1  Cut  a  foot  off  it  if  you  like. '  > 

"I  just  wanted  to  know,"  said  Butch  apolo 
getically.  "Lots  of  people  say  they're  going 
to  quit;  but " 

"It  isn't  a  case  of  going  to  quit  with  me," 
said  Coyne.  "I/mvequit!  You  can  make  kin 
dling  wood  out  of  that  shaft  if  you  like." 

Then,  with  the  empty  bag  under  his  arm,  and 
his  bridges  aflame  behind  him,  he  marched  back 
to  the  clubhouse,  his  chin  a  bit  higher  in  the  air 
than  was  absolutely  necessary. 

Later  his  voice  was  heard  in  the  shower  room, 
loud  and  clear  above  the  sound  of  running  wa 
ter.  It  suited  him  to  sing  and  the  ditty  of  his 
choice  was  a  cheerful  one;  but  the  rollicking 
words  failed  to  carry  conviction.  An  expert 
listener  might  have  detected  a  tone  smacking 
strongly  of  defiance  and  suspected  that  Mr. 
Coyne  was  singing  to  keep  up  his  courage. 

When  next  seen  he  was  clothed,  presumably 
in  his  right  mind,  and  rummaging  deep  in  his 
locker.  On  the  floor  was  a  pile  of  miscellaneous 
garments — underwear,  sweaters,  shirts,  jackets, 
knickerbockers  and  stockings.  To  his  assist 
ance  came  Jasper,  for  twenty  years  a  fixture  in 
the  locker  room  and  as  much  a  part  of  the  club 
as  the  sun  porch  or  the  front  door. 

[244] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


"Gettin'  yo'  laundry  out,  suh?  Lemme  give 
you  a  hand." 

Now  Jasper  was  what  is  known  as  a  char 
acter;  and,  moreover,  he  was  a  privileged  one. 
He  was  on  intimate  terms  with  every  member 
of  the  Country  Club  and  entitled  to  speak  his 
mind  at  all  times.  lie  had  made  a  close  study 
of  the  male  golfing  animal  in  all  his  varying 
moods;  he  knew  when  to  sympathise  with  a 
loser,  when  to  congratulate  a  winner,  and  when 
to  remain  silent.  Jasper  was  that  rare  thing 
known  as  the  perfect  locker  room  servant. 

1 '  This  isn  't  laundry, ' '  explained  Coyne.  ' '  I  'm 
just  cleaning  house — that 's  all.  .  .  .  Think  you 
can  use  these  rubber-soled  golf  shoes?" 

"Misteh  Coyne,  suh,"  said  Jasper,  "them 
shoes  is  as  good  as  new.  Whut  you  want  to 
give  'em  away  faw?" 

" Because  I  won't  be  wearing  'em  any  more." 

"H-m-m!    Too  small,  maybe!" 

"No;  they  fit  all  right.  Fact  of  the  matter 
is,  Jasper,  I'm  sick  of  this  game  and  I'm  going 
to  quit  it." 

Jasper's  eyes  oscillated  rapidly. 

"Aw,  no,  Misteh  Coyne!"  said  he  in  the  tone 
one  uses  when  soothing  a  peevish  child.  "You 
jus'  think  you  goin'  to  quit — tha's  all!" 

"You  never  heard  me  say  I  was  going  to  quit 
before,  did  you?"  demanded  Coyne. 

"No,  suh;  no." 

"Well,  when  I  say  I'm  going  to  quit,  you  can 
[245] 


FOEE! 

bet  I  mean  it!"  Jasper  reflected  on  this  state 
ment. 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  he  gently.  "Betteh  let  me 
put  them  things  back,  Misteh  Coyne.  They  in 
the  way  here. ' ' 

"What's  the  use  of  putting  'em  back  in  the 
locker  ?  They  're  no  good  to  me.  Make  a  bundle 
of  'em  and  give  'em  to  the  poor." 

"Mph!  Po*  folks  ain't  wearin'  them  shawt 
pants  much — not  this  season,  nohow!" 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  'em!  Throw 
'em  away — burn  'em  up — pitch  'em  out.  I  don't 
care!" 

"Yes,  suh.  All  right,  suh.  Jus'  as  you  say." 
Jasper  rolled  the  heap  into  a  bundle  and  be 
gan  tying  it  with  the  sleeves  of  a  shirt.  "I'll 
look  afteh  'em,  suh." 

"Never  mind  looking  after  'em.  Get  rid  of 
the  stuff.  I'm  through,  I  tell  you — done — fin 
ished — quit ! ' ' 

"Yes,  suh.  I  heard  you  the  firs'  time  you 
said  it." 

The  negro  was  on  his  knees  fumbling  with 
the  knot.  Something  in  his  tone  irritated  Coyne 
— caused  him  to  feel  that  he  was  not  being 
taken  seriously. 

"I  suppose  a  lot  of  members  quit — eh?"  said 
he. 

"Yes,  suh,"  replied  Jasper  with  a  flash  of 
ivory.  "Some  of  'em  quits  oncet  a  month,  reg'- 
leh." 

"But  you  never  heard  of  a  case  where  a 
[246] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


player  gave  all  his  clubs  away,  did  you?"  de 
manded  Coyne. 

"Some  of  'em  loredks  clubs,"  said  Jasper; 
"but  they  always  gits  new  shafts  put  in.  Some 
of  'em  th'ow  'em  in  the  lake;  but  they  fish  'em 
out  ag'in.  But — give  'em  away?  No,  suh! 
They  don'  neveh  do  that." 

"Well,"  said  Coyne,  "when  I  make  up  my 
mind  to  do  a  thing  I  do  it  right.  I've  given 
away  every  club  I  owned." 

Jasper  lifted  his  head  and  stared  upward, 
mouth  open  and  eyelids  fluttering  rapidly. 

"You — you  given  yo'  clubs  away!"  he  ejacu 
lated.  "Who'd  you  give  'em  to,  suh?" 

"Oh,  to  the  caddies,"  was  the  airy  response. 
,' '  Made  a  sort  of  general  distribution.  One  club 
,to  each  kid." 

"Misteh  Coyne,"  said  Jasper  earnestly, 
"tha's  foolishness — jus'  plain  foolishness. 
S'pose  you  ain'  been  playin'  yo'  reg'leh  game 
lately — s'pose  you  had  a  lot  o'  bad  luck — that 
ain'  no  reason  faw  you  to  do  a  thing  like  that. 
Givin'  all  them  expensible  clubs  to  them  pin- 
headed  li'l' boys!  Lawd!  Lawd!  They  don't 
know  how  to  treat  'em  !  They'll  be  splittin' 
the  shafts,  an'  crackin'  the  heads,  an'  nickin' 
up  the  irons,  an' 

"Well,"  interrupted  Coyne,  "what  of  it?  I 
hope  they  do  break  'em!" 

Jasper  shook  his  head  sorrowfully  and  re 
turned  to  the  bundle.  While  studying  golfers 

[247] 


FORE! 

he  had  come  to  know  the  value  placed  on  golfing 
tools. 

"0'  course,"  said  he  slowly,  "yo'  own  busi 
ness  is  yo'  own  business,  Misteh  Coyne.  Only, 
suh,  it  seem  like  a  awful  shame  to  me.  Seem 
like  bustin'  up  housekeepin'  aft  eh  you  been 
married  a  long  time.  .  .  .  Why  not  wait  a  few 
days  an'  see  how  you  feel  then?" 

"No!    I'm  through." 

Jasper  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  lounging  room. 

"You  tol'  the  otheh  gen'lemen  whut  you  go- 
in'  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"What's  the  use?  They'd  only  laugh.  They 
wouldn't  believe  me.  Let  'em  find  it  out  for 
themselves.  And,  by  the  way — there's  my  empty 
bag  in  the  corner.  Dispose  of  it  somehow.  Give 
it  away — sell  it.  You  can  have  whatever  you 
get  for  it." 

"Thank  you,  suh.  You  comin'  back  to  see  us 
once  in  a  while  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  With  the  wife  and  the 
kids.  Well,  take  care  of  yourself." 

Jasper  followed  him  to  the  door  and  watched 
until  the  little  runabout  disappeared  down  the 
driveway. 

"All  foolishness — tha's  whut  it  is!"  solilo 
quised  the  negro. 

"This  golf  game — she's  sutny  a  goat  getteh 

when  she  ain'  goin'  right.    Me,  I  ratheh  play 

this  Af'ican  golf  with  two  dice.    That's  some 

goat  getteh,  too,  an'  lots  of  people  quits  it; 

[248] 


THE    MAX    WHO    QUIT 


but  I  notice  they  always  comes  back.    Yes,  suh ; 
they  always  comes  back." 

n 

As  the  runabout  coughed  and  sputtered  along 
the  county  road  the  man  at  the  wheel  had  time 
to  think  over  the  whole  matter.  Everything 
considered,  he  decided  that  he  had  acted  wisely. 

''Been  playing  too  much  golf,  anyway,"  he 
told  himself.  "Wednesday  and  Saturday  aft 
ernoons,  Sundays  and  holidays — too  much !  .  .  . 
And  then  worrying  about  my  game  in  between. 
It'll  be  off  my  mind  now.  .  .  .  One  thing  sure 
— Mary '11  be  glad  to  hear  the  news.  That  old 
joke  of  hers  about  being  a  golf  widow  won't 
go  any  more.  Yes,  she  '11  have  to  dig  up  a  new 
one.  .  .  .  Maybe  I  have  been  a  little  selfish  and 
neglectful.  I'll  make  up  for  it  now,  though. 
Sundays  we  can  take  the  big  car  and  go  on  pic 
nics.  The  kids '11  like  that." 

He  pursued  this  train  of  thought  until  he  felt 
almost  virtuous.  He  could  see  himself  entering 
the  house;  he  could  picture  his  wife's  amaze 
ment  and  pleasure ;  he  could  hear  himself  say 
ing  something  like  this: 

"Well,  my  dear,  you've  got  your  wish  at  last. 
After  thinking  it  all  over  I've  decided  to  cut 
out  the  golf  and  devote  myself  to  the  family. 
Yes ;  I  'm  through ! ' ' 

In  this  highly  commendable  spirit  he  arrived 
at  home,  only  to  find  the  shades  drawn  and  the 

[249] 


FORE! 

front  door  locked.  As  Coyne  felt  for  his  key 
ring  he  remembered  that  his  wife  had  said  some 
thing  about  taking  the  children  to  spend  the  day 
with  her  mother.  It  was  also  the  servant's  aft 
ernoon  off  and  the  house  was  empty.  Coyne 
was  conscious  of  a  slight  disappointment;  he 
was  the  bearer  of  glad  tidings,  but  he  had  no 
audience. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  thought;  "it's  been  a  long 
time  since  I  had  a  quiet  Sunday  afternoon  at 
home.  Do  me  good.  Guess  I'll  read  a  while 
and  then  run  over  to  mother's  for  supper.  I 
don't  read  as  much  as  I  used  'to.  Mafi.  ought 
to  keep  up  to  date." 

Then,  because  he  was  a  creature  of  habit 
and  the  most  methodical  of  men,  he  must  have 
his  pipe  and  slippers  before  sitting  down  with 
his  book.  Mary  Coyne  was  a  good  wife  and  a 
faithful  mother,  but  she  abominated  a  pipe  in 
the  living  room ;  and  she  tolerated  slippers  only 
when  they  were  of  her  own  choosing. 

Now  there  are  things  which  every  woman 
knows ;  but  there  is  one  thing  which  no  woman 
has  ever  known  and  no  woman  will  ever  know 
— namely,  that  she  is  not  competent  to  select 
slippers  for  her  lord  and  master.  Bob  Coyne 
was  a  patient  man,  but  he  loathed  slippers  his 
wife  picked  out  for  him.  He  was  pledged  to  a 
worn  and  disreputable  pair  of  the  pattern 
known  as  Romeos — relics  of  his  bachelor  days. 
They  were  run  down  at  the  heel  and  thin  of 
sole;  but  they  were  dear  to  his  heart  and  he 
[250] 


THE   MAN   WHO   QUIT 


clung  to  them  obstinately  in  spite  of  their 
shabby  appearance.  After  the  honeymoon  it 
had  been  necessary  to  speak  sternly  with  his 
wife  on  the  subject  of  the  Bomeos,  else  she 
would  have  thrown  them  on  the  ash  heap.  Since 
that  interview  Mrs.  Coyne — obedient  soul! — 
had  spent  a  great  portion  of  her  married  life  in 
finding  safe  hiding  places  for  those  wretched 
slippers;  but  no  matter  where  she  put  them, 
they  seemed  certain  of  a  triumphant  resurrec 
tion. 

Coyne  went  on  a  still  hunt  for  the  Eomeos, 
and  found  them  at  last,  tucked  away  in  the 
clothes  closet  of  the  spare  room  upstairs.  This 
closet  was  a  sort  of  catchall,  as  the  closets  of 
spare  rooms  are  apt  to  be ;  and  as  Coyne  stooped 
to  pick  up  the  slippers  he  knocked  down  some 
thing  which  had  been  standing  in  a  dark  corner. 
It  fell  with  a  heavy  thump,  and  there  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet  was  a  rusty  old  mid-iron — the 
first  golf  club  Coyne  had  ever  owned. 
*  He  had  not  seen  thut  mid-iron  in  years,  but 
he  remembered  it  well.  He  picked  it  up, 
sighted  along  the  shaft,  found  it  still  reason 
ably  straight  and  unwarped,  balanced  the  club 
in  his  hands,  waggled  it  once  as  if  to  make  a 
shot ;  then  he  replaced  it  hastily,  seized  the  slip 
pers,  and  hurried  downstairs. 

The  book  of  his  selection  was  one  highly  rec 
ommended  by  press  and  pulpit,  hence  an  ideal 
tale  for  a  Sunday  afternoon;  so  he  dragged 
an  easy-chair  to  the  front  window,  lighted  his 
[251] 


FORE! 

pipe,  put  his  worn  Romeos  on  a  taboret,  and 
settled  down  to  solid  comfort.  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  book  was  said  to  be  gripping,  and 
entertaining  from  cover  to  cover,  Coyne  en 
countered  some  difficulty  in  getting  into  the 
thing.  He  skimmed  through  the  first  chapter, 
yawned  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  They  're  just  getting  away  for  the  after 
noon  round,"  said  he;  and  then,  with  the  air 
of  one  who  has  caught  himself  in  a  fault,  he  at 
tacked  Chapter  Two.  It  proved  even  worse 
than  the  first.  He  told  himself  that  the  char 
acters  were  out  of  drawing,  the  situations  im 
possible,  and  the  humour  strained  or  stale. 

At  the  end  of  Chapter  Three  he  pitched  the 
book  across  the  room  and  closed  his  eyes.  Five 
minutes  later  he  rose,  knocked  the  ashes  from 
his  pipe,  and  went  slowly  upstairs.  He  assured 
himself  he  was  not  in  search  of  anything;  but 
his  aimless  wanderings  brought  him  at  last  to 
the  spare  room,  where  he  seated  himself  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed.  He  remained  there  for 
twenty  minutes,  motionless,  staring  into  space. 
Then  he  rose,  crossed  the  room  and  disappeared 
in  the  clothes  closet.  When  he  came  out  the 
rusty  mid-iron  came  with  him.  Was  this  a  sign 
of  weakness,  of  deterioration  in  the  moral  fibre, 
an  indication  of  regret?  Perish  the  thought! 
The  explanation  Mr.  Coyne  offered  himself  was 
perfectly  satisfactory.  He  merely  wished  to 
examine  the  ten-year-old  shaft  and  ascertain 
whether  it  was  cracked  or  not.  He  carried  the 

[252] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


venerable  souvenir  to  the  window  and  scruti 
nised  it  closely;  the  shaft  was  sound. 

"A  good  club  yet,"  he  muttered. 

As  he  stood  there,  holding  the  old  mid-iron 
in  his  hands,  ten  years  slipped  away  from  him. 
He  remembered  that  club  very  well — almost  as 
well  as  a  man  remembers  his  first  sweetheart. 
He  remembered  other  things  too — remembered 
that,  as  a  youth,  he  had  never  had  the  time  or 
the  inclination  to  play  at  games  of  any  sort.  He 
had  been  too  busy  getting  his  start,  as  the  say 
ing  goes.  Then,  at  thirty,  married  and  well  on 
his  way  to  business  success,  he  had  felt  the  need 
of  open  air  and  exercise.  He  had  mentioned 
this  to  a  friend  and  the  friend  had  suggested 
golf. 

"But  that's  an  old  man's  game!"  Yes;  he 
had  said  that  very  thing.  His  ears  burned  at 
the  recollection  of  his  folly. 

' '  Think  so  ?    Tackle  it  and  see. ' ' 

He  had  been  persuaded  to  spend  one  after 
noon  at  the  Country  Club.  Is  there  a  golfer 
in  all  the  world  who  needs  to  be  told  what  hap 
pened  to  Mr.  Eobert  Coyne!  He  had  hit  one 
long,  straight  tee  shot;  he  had  holed  one  diffi 
cult  putt;  and  the  whole  course  of  his  serious, 
methodical  existence  had  been  changed.  The 
man  who  does  not  learn  to  play  any  game  until 
he  is  thirty  years  of  age  is  quite  capable  of  go 
ing  daft  over  tiddledy winks  or  dominoes.  If 
he  takes  up  the  best  and  most  interesting  of 
[253] 


FOKE! 

all  outdoor  sports  his  family  may  count  itself 
fortunate  if  he  does  not  become  violent. 

Never  the  sort  of  person  who  could  be  con 
tent  to  do  anything  badly,  Bob  Coyne  had  ap 
plied  himself  to  the  Koyal  and  Ancient  Pastime 
with  all  the  simple  earnestness  and  dogged  de 
termination  of  a  silent,  self-centred  man.  He 
had  taken  lessons  from  the  professional.  He 
had  brought  his  driver  home  and  practised  with 
it  in  the  back  yard.  He  had  read  books  on  the 
subject.  He  had  studied  the  methods  and  styles 
of  the  best  players.  He  had  formed  theories 
of  his  own  as  to  stance  and  swing.  He  had  even 
talked  golf  to  his  wife — which  is  the  last  stage 
of  incurable  golfitis. 

As  he  stood  at  the  window,  turning  the  rusty 
mid-iron  in  his  hands,  he  recalled  the  first  com 
pliment  ever  paid  him  by  a  good  player — the 
more  pleasing  because  he  had  not  been  intended 
to  hear  it.  It  came  after  he  had  fought  him 
self  out  of  the  duffer  class  and  had  reached 
the  point  where  he  was  too  good  for  the  bad 
ones,  but  not  considered  good  enough  for  the 
topnotchers. 

One  day  Corkrane  had  invited  him  into  a 
foursome — Coyne  had  been  the  only  man  in 
sight — and  Corkrane  had  taken  him  as  a  part 
ner  against  such  redoubtable  opponents  as  Mil 
lar  and  Duffy.  Coyne  had  halved  four  holes 
and  won  two,  defeating  Millar  and  Duffy  on  the 
home  green.  Nothing  had  been  said  at  the 
time ;  but  later  on,  while  polishing  himself  with 
[254] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


a  towel  in  the  shower  room,  Coyne  had  heard 
Corkrane  's  voice : 

"Hey,  Millar!" 

"Well?" 

"That  fellow  Coyne — he's  not  so  bad." 

"I  believe  you,  Corky.  He  won  the  match 
for  yon." 

"Thought  I'd  have  to  carry  him  on  my  back; 
but  he  was  right  there  all  the  way  round.  Yep ; 
Coyne's  a  comer,  sure  as  you  live!" 

And  the  subject  of  this  kindly  comment  had 
blushed  pink  out  of  sheer  gratification. 

A  pretty  good  bunch,  those  fellows  out  at  the 
club !  If  it  had  done  nothing  else  for  him,  Coyne 
reflected,  golf  had  widened  his  circle  of  friends. 
Suddenly  there  came  to  him  the  realisation 
that  he  would  have  a  great  deal  of  spare  time 
on  his  hands  in  the  future.  "Wednesdays  and 
Saturdays  would  be  long  days  now;  and  Sun 
days Coyne  sighed  deeply  and  swung  the 

rusty  mid-iron  back  and  forth  as  if  in  the  act 
of  studying  a  difficult  approach. 

t '  But  what 's  the  use ! ' '  he  asked  himself.  ' '  I 
haven't  got  a  shot  left — not  a  single  shot!" 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  the  mid- 
iron  between  his  knees  and  his  head  in  his 
hands.  At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  he  rose 
and  began  to  prowl  about  the  house,  looking 
into  corners,  behind  doors,  and  underneath  beds 
and  bureaus. 

"Seems  to  me  I  saw  it  only  the  other  day," 
[255], 


FORE! 

said  he.  "Of  course  Bobby  might  have  been 
playing  with  it  and  lost  it." 

It  was  in  the  children's  playroom  that  he 
carne  upon  the  "thing,  which  he  told  himself  he 
found  by  accident.  It  was  much  the  worse  for 
wear ;  nearly  all  the  paint  had  been  worn  off  it 
and  its  surface  was  covered  with  tiny  dents. 
Bob  Junior  had  been  teaching  his  dog  to  fetch 
and  carry  and  the  dents  were  the  prints  of 
sharp  puppy  teeth. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that!"  ejacu 
lated  Mr.  Coyne,  pretending  to  be  surprised. 
"As  I  live— a'golf  ball !  Yes ;  a  golf  ball ! ' ' 

He  stood  looking  at  it  for  some  time ;  but  at 
last  he  picked  it  up.  With  the  rusty  mid-iron 
in  one  hand  and  the  ball  in  the  other,  he  went 
downstairs,  passed  through  the  house,  unlocked 
the  back  door  and  went  into  the  yard.  Behind 
the  garage  was  a  smooth  stretch  of  lawn,  fifty 
feet  in  diameter,  carefully  mowed  and  rolled. 
In  the  centre  of  this  emerald  carpet  was  a  hole, 
and  in  the  hole  was  a  flag.  This  was  Mr. 
Coyne's  private  putting  green. 

"Haven't  made  a  decent  chip  shot  in  a  month. 
...  No  use  trying  now.  All  confounded  fool 
ishness!" 

So  saying,  the  man  who  had  renounced  Colo 
nel  Bogey  and  all  his  works  dropped  the  ball 
twenty  feet  from  the  edge  of  the  putting  green. 
The  lie  did  not  suit  him ;  so  he  altered  it  slightly. 
Then  he  planted  his  disreputable  Romeos  firmly 
on  the  turf,  waggled  the  rusty  mid-ii*»n  a  few; 

[256] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


times,  pressed  the  blade  lightly  behind  the  ball, 
and  attempted  that  most  difficult  of  all  perform 
ances — the  chip  shot.  The  ball  hopped  across 
the  lawn  to  the  smooth  surface  of  the  putting 
green  and  rolled  straight  for  the  cup,  struck 
the  flag  and  stopped  two  inches  from  the  hole. 

"Heavens  above!"  gasped  Mr.  Coyne,  rub 
bing  his  eyes.  "Look  at  that,  will  you?  I  hit 
the  pin,  by  golly — hit  the  pin!" 

At  dusk  Mrs.  Coyne  returned.  The  first  thing 
she  noticed  was  that  a  large  rug  was  missing 
from  the  dining  room.  Having  had  experience, 
she  knew  exactly  where  to  look  for  it.  On  the 
back  porch  she  paused,  her  hands  on  her  hips. 
The  missing  rug  was  hanging  over  the  clothes 
line,  and  her  lord  and  master,  in  shirtsleeves 
and  the  unspeakable  Bomeos,  was  driving  a 
single  golf  ball  against  it. 

Whish-h-h!    Click!    Thud! 

"And  I  guess  that's  getting  my  weight  into 
the  swing!"  babbled  Mr.  Coyne.  "I've  found 
out  what  I've  been  doing  that  was  wrong. 
"Watch  me  hit  this  one,  Mary." 

Mrs.  Coyne  was  everything  that  a  good  wife 
should  be,  but  she  sniffed  audibly. 

"I've  told  you  a  dozen  times  that  I  didn't 
want  you  knocking  holes  in  that  rug!"  said 
she. 

"Why,  there  isn't  a  hole  in  it,  my  dear." 

""Well,  there  will  be  if  you  keep  on.  It  seems 
to  me,  Bob,  that  you  might  get  enough  golf 
[257] 


FOBE! 

out  at  tlie  club.  Then  you  won't  scandalise  the 
neighbours  by  practising  in  the  back  yard  on 
Sunday  afternoons.  What  do  you  suppose 
they '11  think  of  you?" 

''They'll  think  I'm  crazy, "  was  the  cheerful 
response;  "but,  just  between  you  and  me,  my 
dear,  I'm  not  near  so  crazy  right  now  as  I 
have  been ! ' ' 

in 

Jasper  was  cleaning  up  the  locker  room — • 
his  regular  Monday-morning  job.  As  he  worked 
he  crooned  the  words  of  an  old  negro  melody: 

"Ole  bline  hawss,  come  outen  the  wilderness, 
Outen  tlie  wilderness,  outen  the  wilderness; 
Ole  bline  liawss " 

The  side  door  opened  and  Jasper  dropped 
his  mop. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked.  "This  early  in 
the  mawnin'?"  But  when  he  recognised  the 
caller  he  did  not  show  the  faintest  symptoms 
of  surprise.  Jasper  was  more  than  a  perfect 
servant ;  he  was  also  a  diplomat.  "Good  mawn- 
in',  Misteh  Coyne." 

The  caller  seemed  embarrassed.  He  at 
tempted  to  assume  a  cheerful  expression,  but 
succeeded  in  producing  a  silly  grin. 

"Jasper,"  said  he,  "I  was  a  little  bit  core 
yesterday " 

"Yes,  suh;  an*  nobody  could  blame  you," 
[258] 


THE   MAN    WHO    QUIT 


said  the  negro,  coming  gallantly  to  the  rescue. 

"And  you  know  how  it  is  with  a  man  when 
he's  sore." 

''Yes,  suh.  Man  don'  always  mean  whut  he 
say — that  is,  he  mean  it  all  right  at  the  time. 
Yes,  suh.  At — the — time.  'N'en  ag'in,  he 
might  change." 

"That's  it  exactly!"  said  Coyne,  and  floun 
dered  to  a  full  stop. 

Jasper's  face  was  grave,  but  he  found  it  nec 
essary  to  fix  his  eyes  on  the  opposite  wall. 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  he.  "Las'  month  I  swo' 
off  too." 

"Swore  off  on  what?" 

"Craps,  Misteh  Coyne.  Whut  Bu't  Wil 
liams  calls  Af'ican  golf.  Yes,  suh,  I  swo'  off; 
but  las'  night — well,  I  kind  o'  fell  f  'um  grace. 
I  fell,  suh;  but  I  wasn't  damaged  so  much  as 
some  o '  them  boys  in  the  game. ' '  Jasper  chuck 
led  to  himself.  "Yes,  suh;  I  sutny  sewed  'em 
up  propeh!  Look  like  I  come  back  in  my  ole- 
time  fawm!" 

"That's  it!"  Coyne  agreed  eagerly.  "I've 
got  my  chip  shot  back,  Jasper.  Last  night,  at 
home,  I  was  hitting  'em  as  clean  as  a  whistle.  I 
• — I  ran  out  here  this  morning  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  you.  You  remember  about  those 
clubs  1 ' '  Jasper  nodded.  ' '  That  was  a  foolish 

thing  to  do "  began  Coyne. 

No,   suh!"  interrupted  Jasper  positively. 

No,  suh!    When  a  man  git  good  an'  sore  he 
do  a  lot  o'  things  whut  awdinarily  he  wouldn't 
[259] 


1 t 

n 


FORE! 

think  o'  doin' !  Las'  month  I  th'owed  away  the 
best  paih  o'  crap  dice  you  eveh  saw.  You  givin' 
away  yo '  clubs  is  exackly  the  same  thing. ' ' 

"That  was  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about," 
said  Coyne  with  a  shamefaced  grin.  "I  was 
wondering  if  there  wouldn't  be  some  way  to 
get  those  clubs  back — buying  'era  from  the  boys. 
You  could  explain " 

Jasper  cackled  and  slapped  his  knees. 

"Same  thing  all  oveh  ag'in!"  said  he.  "I 
th'owed  them  dice  away,  Misteh  Coyne;  but 
I  th'owed  'em  kind  o'  easy,  an'  I  knowed  where 
to  look.  So,  when  you  tol'  me  'bout  them  clubs 
I — well,  suh,  I  ain'  been  c'nected  with  this  club 
twenty  yeahs  faw  no  thin'.  If  I  was  you,  suh, 
I  think  I'd  look  in  my  lockeh." 

Coyne  drew  the  bolt  and  opened  the  door. 
His  clothes  were  hanging  on  the  hooks;  his 
shoes  were  resting  on  the  steel  floor;  his  golf 
bag  was  leaning  in  the  corner,  and  it  was  full 
of  clubs — the  clubs  he  had  given  away  the  day 
before!  Coyne  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words 
would  not  come. 

"You  see,  Misteh  Coyne,"  explained  Jasper, 
"I  knowed  them  fool  boys  would  bust  them 
clubs  or  somethin',  an'  I  kind  of  s'pected  you'd 
be  wantin'  'em  back  ag'in;  so  I  didn't  take  no 
chances.  Afteh  you  left  yestiddy  I  kind  o'  took 
mattehs  in  my  own  hands.  I  tol'  them  caddies 
you  was  only  foolin'.  The  younges'  ones,  they 
was  open  to  conviction;  but  them  oldeh  boys — • 
.they  had  to  be  showed.  Now  that  light  mid- 

[260] 


THE    MAN    WHO    QUIT 


iron — I  had  to  give  Butch  a  dollah  an'  twenty 

cents  faw  it.    That  brassy  was  a  dollah  an'  a 
half » 

Ten  minutes  later  the  incomparable  Jasper 
was  alone  in  the  locker  room,  examining  a  very 
fine  sample  of  the  work  turned  out  by  the  Bu 
reau  of  Engraving  and  Printing  at  Washington, 
D.  C.  Across  the  bottom  of  this  specimen  were 
two  words  in  large  black  type:  Twenty  Dol 
lars. 

"Haw!"  chuckled  Jasper.  "I  wisht  some 
mo'  of  these  membehs  would  quit  playin'  golf!" 


[261] 


THE  OOLEY-COW 


AFTER  the  explosion,  and  before  Uncle 
Billy  Poindexter  and  Old  Man  Sprott 
had  been  able  to  decide  just  what  had 
hit  them,  Little  Doc  Ellis  had  the  nerve 
to  tell  me  that  he  had  seen  the  fuse  burning  for 
months  and  months.    Little  Doc  is  my  friend 
and  I  like  him,  but  he  resembles  many  other 
members  of  his  profession  in  that  he  is  usually 
wisest  after  the  post  mortem,  when  it  is  a  wee 
bit  late  for  the  high  contracting  party. 

And  at  all  times  Little  Doc  is  full  of  vintage 
bromides  and  figures  of  speech. 

"You  have  heard  the  old  saw,"  said  he.  "A 
worm  will  turn  if  you  keep  picking  on  him,  and 
so  will  a  straight  road  if  you  ride  it  long  enough. 
A  camel  is  a  wonderful  burden  bearer,  but  even 
a  double-humped  ship  of  the  desert  will  sink  on 
your  hands  if  you  pile  the  load  on  him  a  bale 
of  hay  at  a  time." 

"A  worm,  a  straight  road,  a  camel  and  a 
sinking  ship,"  said  I.  "Whither  are  we  drift 
ing?" 

[262] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


Little  Doc  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  me. 
It  is  a  way  he  has. 

''Think,"  said  he,  "how  much  longer  a  camel 
will  stand  up  under  punishment  if  he  gets  his 
load  straw  by  straw,  as  it  were.  The  Ooley- 
cow  was  a  good  thing,  but  Uncle  Billy  and  Old 
Man  Sprott  did  not  use  any  judgment.  They 
piled  it  on  him  too  thick." 

"Meaning,"  I  asked,  "to  compare  the  Ooley- 
cow  with  a  camel?" 

"Merely  a  figure  of  speech,"  said  Little  Doc; 
"but  yes,  such  was  my  intention." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "your  figures  of  speech  need 
careful  auditing.  A  camel  can  go  eight  days 
without  a  drink " 

Little  Doc  made  impatient  motions  at  me  with 
both  hands.  He  has  no  sense  of  humour,  and 
his  mind  is  a  one-way  track,  totally  devoid  of 
spurs  and  derailing  switches.  Once  started,  he 
must  go  straight  through  to  his  destination. 

"What  I  am  trying  to  make  plain  to  your  lim 
ited  mentality,"  said  he,  "is  that  Uncle  Billy 
and  Old  Man  Sprott  needed  a  lesson  in  con 
servation,  and  they  got  it.  The  Ooley-cow  was 
the  easiest,  softest  picking  that  ever  strayed 
from  the  home  pasture.  With  care  and  decent 
treatment  he  would  have  lasted  a  long  time  and 
yielded  an  enormous  quantity  of  nourishment, 
but  Uncle  Billy  and  Old  Man  Sprott  were  too 
greedy.  They  tried  to  corner  the  milk  market, 
and  now  they  will  have  to  sign  tags  for  their 
drinks  and  their  golf  balls  the  same  as  the  rest 
[263] 


FOEE ! 

of  us.  They  have  killed  the  goose  that  laid  the. 
golden  eggs. ' ' 

"A  minute  ago,"  said  I,  "the  Ooley-cow  was 
a  camel.  Now  he  is  a  goose — a  dead  goose,  to 
be  exact.  Are  you  all  done  figuring  with  your 
speech?" 

"Practically  so,  yes." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "I  will  plaster  up  the  cracks 
in  your  argument  with  the  cement  of  informa 
tion.  I  can  use  figures  of  speech  myself.  You 
are  barking  up  the  wrong  tree.  You  are  away 
off  your  base.  It  wasn  't  the  loss  of  a  few  dollars, 
that  made  Mr.  Perkins  run  wild  in  our  midst. 
It  was  the  manner  in  which  he  lost  them.  Let 
us  now  dismiss  the  worm,  the  camel,  the  goose 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  menagerie,  retaining  only 
the  Ooley-cow.  What  do  you  know  about  cows, 
if  anything?" 

"A  little,"  answered  my  medical  friend. 

"A  mighty  little.  You  know  that  a  cow  has 
hoofs,  horns  and  a  tail.  The  same  description 
would  apply  to  many  creatures,  including  Satan 
himself.  Your  knowledge  of  cows  is  largely 
academic.  Now  me,  I  was  raised  on  a  farm, 
and  there  were  cows  in  my  curriculum.  I  took 
a  seven-year  course  in  the  gentle  art  of  acquir 
ing  the  lacteal  fluid.  Cow  is  my  specialty,  my 
long  suit,  my  best  hold.  Believe  it  or  not,  when 
we  christened  old  Perkins  the  Ooley-cow  we 
builded  better  than  we  knew." 

' '  I  follow  you  at  a  great  distance, ' '  said  little 
Doc.  "Proceed  with  the  rat  killing.  Why  did 

[264] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


we  build  better  than  we  knew  when  we  did  not 
know  anything?" 

"Because,"  I  explained,  "Perkins  not  only 
looks  like  a  cow  and  walks  like  a  cow  and  plays 
golf  like  a  cow,  but  he  has  the  predominant 
characteristic  of  a  cow.  He  has  the  one  dis 
tinguishing  trait  which  all  country  cows  have 
in  common.  If  you  had  studied  that  noble  do 
mestic  animal  as  closely  as  I  have,  you  would  not 
need  to  be  told  what  moved  Mr.  Perkins  to  strew 
the  entire  golf  course  with  the  mangled  remains 
of  the  two  old  pirates  before  mentioned.  Uncle 
Billy  and  Old  Man  Sprott  were  milking  him, 
yes,  and  it  is  quite  likely  that  the  Ooley-cow 
knew  that  he  was  being  milked,  but  that  knowl 
edge  was  not  the  prime  cause  of  the  late  un 
pleasantness." 

"I  still  follow  you,"  said  Little  Doc  plain 
tively,  "but  I  am  losing  ground  every  minute." 

"Listen  carefully,"  said  I.  "Pin  back  your 
ears  and  give  me  your  undivided  attention. 
There  are  many  ways  of  milking  a  cow  without 
exciting  the  animal  to  violence.  I  speak  now 
of  the  old-fashioned  cow — the  country  cow — 
from  Iowa,  let  us  say." 

"The  Ooley-cow  is  from  Iowa,"  murmured 
Little  Doc. 

* '  Exactly.  A  city  cow  may  be  milked  by  ma 
chinery,  and  in  a  dozen  different  ways,  but  the 
country  cow  does  not  know  anything  about  new 
fangled  methods.  There  is  one  thing — and  one 
thing  only — which  will  make  the  gentlest  old 

[265] 


FORE  ! 

inooley  in  Iowa  kick  over  the  bucket,  upset  the 
milker,  jump  a  four-barred  fence  and  join  the 
wild  bunch  on  the  range.  Do  you  know  what 
that  one  thing  is?" 

" I  haven't  even  a  suspicion,"  confessed  Little 
Doc. 

Then  I  told  him.  I  told  him  in  words  of  one 
syllable,  and  after  a  time  he  was  able  to  grasp 
the  significance  of  my  remarks.  If  I  could  make 
Little  Doc  see  the  point  I  can  make  you  see  it 
too.  We  go  from  here. 

Wesley  J.  Perkins  hailed  from  Dubuque,  but 
he  did  not  hail  from  there  until  he  had  gathered 
up  all  the  loose  change  in  Northeastern  Iowa. 
When  he  arrived  in  sunny  Southern  California 
he  was  fifty-five  years  of  age,  and  at  least  fifty 
of  those  years  had  been  spent  in  putting  aside 
something  for  a  rainy  day.  Judging  by  the  di 
ameter  of  his  bankroll,  he  must  have  feared  the 
sort  of  a  deluge  which  caused  the  early  settlers 
to  lay  the  ground  plans  for  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

Now  it  seldom  rains  in  Southern  California — 
that  is  to  say,  it  seldom  rains  hard  enough  to 
produce  a  flood — and  as  soon  as  Mr.  Perkins 
became  acquainted  with  climatic  conditions  he 
began  to  jettison  his  ark.  He  joined  an  exclu 
sive  downtown  club,  took  up  quarters  there  and 
spent  his  afternoons  playing  dominoes  with 
some  other  members  of  the  Pve-got-mine  Asso 
ciation.  Aside  from  his  habit  of  swelling  up 
whenever  he  mentioned  his  home  town,  and  in- 

[266] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


sisting  on  referring  to  it  as  "  the  Heidelberg  of 
America,"  there  was  nothing  about  Mr.  Per 
kins  to  provoke  comment,  unfavourable  or 
otherwise.  He  was  just  one  more  lowan  in  a 
country  where  lowans  are  no  novelty. 

In  person  he  was  the  mildest-mannered  man 
that  ever  foreclosed  a  short-term  mortgage  and 
put  a  family  out  in  the  street.  His  eyes  were 
large  and  bovine,  his  mouth  drooped  perpet 
ually  and  so  did  his  jowls,  and  he  moved  with 
the  slow,  uncertain  gait  of  a  venerable  milch 
cow.  He  had  a  habit  of  lowering  his  head  and 
staring  vacantly  into  space,  and  all  these  things 
earned  for  him  the  unhandsome  nickname  by 
which  he  is  now  known. 

"But  why  the  Ooley-cow?"  some  one  asked 
one  day.  "It  doesn't  mean  anything  at  all!" 

"Well,"  was  the  reply,  "neither  does  Per 
kins." 

But  this  was  an  error,  as  we  shall  see  later. 

It  was  an  increasing  waistline  that  caused  the 
Ooley-cow  to  look  about  him  for  some  form  of 
gentle  exercise.  His  physician  suggested  golf, 
and  that  very  week  the  board  of  directors  of  the 
Country  Club  was  asked  to  consider  his  applica 
tion  for  membership.  There  were  no  ringing 
cheers,  but  he  passed  the  censors. 

I  will  say  for  Perkins  that  when  he  decided 
to  commit  golf  he  went  about  it  in  a  very  thor 
ough  manner.  He  had  himself  surveyed  for 
three  knickerbocker  suits,  he  laid  in  a  stock  of 
soft  shirts,  imported  stockings  and  spiked 
[267] 


FORE! 

shoes,  and  he  gave  our  professional  carte 
blanche  in  the  matter  of  field  equipment.  It  is 
not  a  safe  thing  to  give  a  Scotchman  permission 
to  dip  his  hand  in  your  change  pocket,  and  Mae- 
Pherson  certainly  availed  himself  of  the  oppor 
tunity  to  finger  some  of  the  Dubuque  money. 
He  took  one  look  at  the  novice  and  unloaded  on 
him  something  less  than  a  hundredweight  of 
dead  stock.  He  also  gave  him  a  lesson  or  two, 
and  sent  him  forth  armed  to  the  teeth  with 
wood,  iron  and  aluminum. 

Almost  immediately  Perkins  found  himself  in 
the  hands  of  Poindexter  and  Sprott,  two  ex 
tremely  hard-boiled  old  gentlemen  who  have 
never  been  known  to  take  any  interest  in  a  finan 
cial  proposition  assaying  less  than  seven  per 
cent,  and  that  fully  guaranteed.  Both  are  re 
tired  capitalists,  but  when  they  climbed  out  of 
the  trenches  and  retreated  into  the  realm  of 
sport  they  took  all  their  business  instincts  with 
them. 

Uncle  Billy  can  play  to  a  twelve  handicap 
when  it  suits  him  to  do  so,  and  his  partner  in 
crime  is  only  a  couple  of  strokes  behind  him; 
but  they  seldom  uncover  their  true  form,  pre 
ferring  to  pose  as  doddering  and  infirm  in 
valids,  childish  old  men,  who  only  think  they 
can  play  the  game  of  golf,  easy  marks  for  the 
rising  generation.  New  members  are  their  vic 
tims;  beginners  are  just  the  same  as  manna 
from  heaven  to  them.  They  instruct  the  novice 
humbly  and  apologetically,  but  always  with  a 

[268] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


small  side  bet,  and  no  matter  how  fast  the  novice 
improves  he  makes  the  astounding  discovery 
that  his  two  feeble  old  tutors  are  able  to  keep 
pace  with  him.  Uncle  Billy  and  Old  Man 
Sprott  are  experts  at  nursing  a  betting  proposi 
tion  along,  and  they  seldom  win  any  sort  of  a 
match  by  a  margin  of  more  than  two  up  and  one 
to  go.  Taking  into  account  the  natural  limita 
tions  of  age  they  play  golf  very  well,  but  they 
play  a  cinch  even  better — and  harder.  It  is 
common  scandal  that  Uncle  Billy  has  not 
bought  a  golf  ball  in  ten  years.  Old  Man  Sprott 
bought  one  in  1915,  but  it  was  under  the  mel 
lowing  influence  of  the  third  toddy  and,  there 
fore,  should  not  count  against  him. 

The  Ooley-cow  was  a  cinch.  When  he  turned 
up,  innocent  and  guileless  and  eager  to  learn  the 
game,  Uncle  Billy  and  his  running  mate  were 
quick  to  realise  that  Fate  had  sent  them  a 
downy  bird  for  plucking,  and  in  no  time  at  all 
the  air  was  full  of  feathers. 

They  played  the  Ooley-cow  for  golf  balls,  they 
played  him  for  caddy  hire,  they  played  him  for 
drinks  and  cigars,  they  played  him  for  lunch 
eons  and  they  played  him  for  a  sucker — played 
him  for  everything,  in  fact,  but  the  locker  rent 
and  the  club  dues.  How  they  came  to  overlook 
these  items  is  more  than  I  know.  The  Ooley- 
cow  would  have  stood  for  it ;  he  stood  for  every 
thing.  He  signed  all  the  tags  with  a  loose  and 
vapid  grin,  and  if  he  suffered  from  writer's 
cramp  he  never  mentioned  the  fact.  His 

[269] 


FORE! 

monthly  bill  must  have  been  a  thing  to  shudder 
at,  but  possibly  he  regarded  this  extra  outlay 
as  part  of  his  tuition. 

Once  in  a  while  he  was  allowed  to  win,  for 
Poindexter  and  Sprott  followed  the  system  prac 
tised  by  other  confidence  men;  but  they  never 
forgot  to  take  his  winnings  away  from  him  the 
next  day,  charging  him  interest  at  the  rate  of 
fifty  per  cent  for  twenty-four  hours.  The  Ooley- 
cow  was  so  very  easy  that  they  took  liberties 
with  him,  so  good-natured  about  his  losses  that 
they  presumed  upon  that  good  nature  and  rid 
iculed  him  openly;  but  the  old  saw  sometimes 
loses  a  tooth,  the  worm  turns,  the  straight  road 
bends  at  last,  so  does  the  camel's  back,  and  the 
prize  cow  kicks  the  milker  into  the  middle  of 
next  week.  And,  as  I  remarked  before,  the  cow 
usually  has  a  reason. 


ii 

One  morning  I  dropped  into  the  downtown 
club  which  Perkins  calls  his  home.  I  found  him 
sitting  in  the  reception  room,  juggling  a  news 
paper  and  watching  the  door.  He  seemed  some 
what  disturbed. 

' '  Good  morning, ' '  said  I. 

"It  is  not  a  good  morning,"  said  he.  "It's  a 
bad  morning.  Look  at  this." 

He  handed  me  the  paper,  with  his  thumb  at 
the  head  of  the  Lost-and-Found  column,  and  I 
read  as  follows : 

[270] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


"LOST — A  black  leather  wallet,  containing 
private  papers  and  a  sum  of  money.  A  suitable 
reward  will  be  paid  for  the  return  of  same,  and 
no  questions  asked.  Apply  to  W.  J.  P.,  Argo 
naut  Club,  City." 

' '  Tough  luck, ' '  said  I.   ' '  Did  you  lose  much ! ' ' 

"Quite  a  sum,"  replied  the  Ooley-cow. 
"Enough  to  make  it  an  object.  In  large  bills 
mostly. ' ' 

' '  Too  bad.    The  wallet  had  your  cards  in  it ?  " 

"And  some  papers  of  a  private  nature." 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  you  might  have 
dropped  it?  Or  do  you  think  it  was  stolen?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  had  it  last 
night  at  the  Country  Club  just  before  I  left.  I 
know  I  had  it  then,  because  I  took  it  out  in  the 
lounging  room  to  pay  a  small  bet  to  Mr.  Poin- 
dexter — a  matter  of  two  dollars.  Then  I  put 
the  wallet  back  in  my  inside  pocket  and  came 
straight  here — alone  in  a  closed  car.  I  missed 
it  just  before  going  to  bed.  I  telephoned  to  the 
Country  Club.  No  sign  of  it  there.  I  went  to 
the  garage  myself.  It  was  not  in  the  car.  Of 
course  it  may  have  been  there  earlier  in  the 
evening,  but  I  think  my  driver  is  honest, 
and " 

At  this  point  we  were  interrupted  by  a  clean- 
cut  looking  youngster  of  perhaps  seventeen 
years. 

"Your  initials  are  W.  J.  P.,  sir?"  he  asked 
politely. 

"They  are." 

[271] 


FOKE! 

''This  is  your  'ad'  in  the  paper?" 

"It  is."  ' 

The  boy  reached  in  his  pocket  and  brought 
out  a  black  leather  wallet.  "I  have  returned 
your  property,"  said  he,  and  waited  while  the 
Ooley-cow  thumbed  a  roll  of  yellow-backed 
bills. 

"All  here,"  said  Perkins  with  a  sigh  of  re 
lief.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  boy,  and  his 
large  bovine  eyes  turned  hard  as  moss  agates. 
"Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  demanded 
abruptly.  "How  did  you  come  by  it?" 

The  boy  smiled  and  shook  his  head,  but  his 
eyes  never  left  Perkins'  face.  "No  questions 
were  to  be  asked,  sir,"  said  he. 

"Eight!"  grunted  the  Ooley-cow.  "Quite 
right.  A  bargain's  a  bargain.  I — I  beg  your 
pardon,  young  man.  .  .  .  Still,  I'd  like  to  know. 
.  .  .  Just  curiosity,  eh?  ...  No?  ...  Very 
well  then.  That  being  the  case" — he  stripped 
a  fifty-dollar  note  from  the  roll  and  passed  it 
over — "would  you  consider  this  a  suitable  re 
ward?" 

'  *  Yes,  sir,  and  thank  you,  sir. ' ' 

"Good  day,"  said  Perkins,  and  put  the  wal 
let  into  his  pocket.  He  stared  at  the  boy  until 
he  disappeared  through  the  street  door. 

' '  Something  mighty  queer  about  this, ' '  mused 
the  Ooley-cow  thoughtfully.  "Mighty  queer. 
That  boy — he  looked  honest.  He  had  good  eyes 
and  he  wasn't  afraid  of  me.  I  couldn't  scare 
him  worth  a  cent.  Couldn't  bluff  him.  .  .  .  Yet 

[272] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


if  he  found  it  somewhere,  there  wasn't  any  rea 
son  why  he  shouldn't  have  told  me.  He  didn't 
steal  it — I'll  bet  on  that.  Maybe  he  got  it  from 
some  one  who  did.  Oh,  well,  the  main  thing  is 
that  he  brought  it  back.  .  .  .  Going  out  to  the 
Country  Club  this  afternoon?" 

I  said  that  I  expected  to  play  golf  that  day. 

"Come  out  with  me  then,"  said  the  Ooley- 
cow.  "Poindexter  and  Sprott  will  be  there  too. 
Yesterday  afternoon  I  played  Poindexter  for 
the  lunches  to-day.  Holed  a  long  putt  on  the 
seventeenth  green,  and  stuck  him.  Come  along, 
and  we'll  make  Poindexter  give  a  party — for 
once. ' ' 

"It  can't  be  done,"  said  I.  "Uncle  Billy 
doesn't  give  parties." 

"We'll  make  him  give  one,"  chuckled  the 
Ooley-cow.  ' '  We  '11  insist  on  it. ' ' 

"Insist  if  you  want  to,"  said  I,  "but  you'll 
never  get  away  with  it. ' ' 

"Meet  me  here  at  noon,"  said  the  Ooley-cow. 
"If  Poindexter  doesn't  give  the  party  I  will." 

I  wasn't  exactly  keen  for  the  Ooley-cow 's  so 
ciety,  but  I  accepted  his  invitation  to  ride  out  to 
the  club  in  his  car.  He  regaled  me  with  a  dreary 
monologue,  descriptive  of  the  Heidelberg  of 
America,  and  solemnly  assured  me  that  the 
pretty  girls  one  sees  in  Chicago  are  all  from 
Dubuque. 

It  was  twelve-thirty  when  we  arrived  at  the 
Country  Club,  and  Uncle  Billy  and  Old  Man 
Sprott  were  there  ahead  of  us. 

[273] 


FORE! 

" Poindexter, "  said  Perkins,  "you  are  giving 
a  party  to-day,  and  I  have  invited  our  friend 
here  to  join  us." 

Uncle  Billy  looked  at  Old  Man  Sprott,  and 
both  laughed  uproariously.  Eight  there  was 
where  I  should  have  detected  the  unmistakable 
odour  of  a  rodent.  It  was  surprise  number  one. 

"Dee-lighted!"  cackled  Uncle  Billy.  "Glad 
to  have  another  guest,  ain't  we,  Sprott?" 

Sprott  grinned  and  rubbed  his  hands.  "You 
bet !  Tell  you  what  let's  do,  Billy.  Let's  invite 
everybody  in  the  place — make  it  a  regular  party 
while  you  're  at  it ! " 

' '  Great  idea ! ' '  exclaimed  Uncle  Billy.  <  *  The 
more  the  merrier ! ' '  This  was  surprise  number 
two.  The  first  man  invited  was  Henry  Bauer, 
who  has  known  Uncle  Billy  for  many  years.  He 
sat  down  quite  overcome. 

"You  shouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that,  Billy," 
said  he  querulously.  ' '  I  have  a  weak  heart,  and 
any  sudden  shock " 

' '  Nonsense !    You  '11  join  us  1 " 

"Novelty  always  appealed  to  me,"  said 
Bauer.  "I'm  forever  trying  things  that  nobody 
has  ever  tried  before.  Yes,  I  '11  break  bread  witH 
you,  but — why  the  celebration?  What's  it  all 
about?" 

That  was  what  everybody  wanted  to  know  and 
what  nobody  found  out,  but  the  luncheon  was  a 
brilliant  success  in  spite  of  the  dazed  and  mysti 
fied  condition  of  the  guests,  and  the  only  limit 
;was  the  limit  of  individual  capacity.  Eighteen 

[274] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


of  us  sat  down  at  the  big  round  table,  and  sand- 
wich-and-milk  orders  were  sternly  counter 
manded  by  Uncle  Billy,  who  proved  an  amazing 
host,  recommending  this  and  that  and  actually 
ordering  Khine-wine  cup  for  all  hands.  I  could 
not  have  been  more  surprised  if  the  bronze 
statue  in  the  corner  of  the  grill  had  hopped 
down  from  its  pedestal  to  fill  our  glasses. 
Uncle  Billy  collected  a  great  pile  of  tags  beside 
his  plate,  but  the  presence  of  so  much  bad  news 
waiting  at  his  elbow  did  not  seem  to  affect  his 
appetite  in  the  least.  When  the  party  was  over 
he  called  the  head  waiter.  "Mark  these  tags 
paid,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  capping  the  collection 
with  a  yellow-backed  bill, ' '  and  hand  the  change 
to  Mr.  Perkins." 

"Yes  sir,"  said  the  head  waiter,  and  dis 
appeared. 

I  looked  at  the  Ooley-cow,  and  was  just  in 
time  to  see  the  light  of  intelligence  dawn  in  his 
big  soft  eyes.  He  was  staring  at  Uncle  Billy, 
and  his  lower  lip  was  flopping  convulsively. 
Everybody  began  asking  questions  at  once. 

"One  moment,  gentlemen,"  mooed  the  Ooley- 
cow,  pounding  on  the  table.  * '  One  moment ! ' ' 

"Now  don't  get  excited,  Perkins,"  said  Old 
Man  Sprott.  "You  got  your  wallet  back,  didn't 
you?  Cost  you  fifty,  but  you  got  it  back.  Next 
time  you  won't  be  so  careless." 

"Yes,"  chimed  in  Uncle  Billy,  "you  oughtn't 
to  go  dropping  your  money  round  loose  that 
way.  It'll  teach  you  a  lesson." 

[275] 


FORE! 

' '  It  will  indeed. ' '  The  Ooley-cow  lowered  his 
head  and  glared  first  at  one  old  pirate  and  then 
at  the  other.  His  soft  eyes  hardened  and  the 
moss-agate  look  came  into  them.  He  seemed 
about  to  bellow,  paw  up  the  dirt  and  charge. 

"The  laugh  is  on  you,"  cackled  Poindexter, 
"and  I'll  leave  it  to  the  boys  here.  Last  night 
our  genial  host  dropped  his  wallet  on  the  floor 
out  in  the  lounging  room.  I  kicked  it  across 
under  the  table  to  Sprott  and  Sprott  put  his 
foot  on  it.  We  intended  to  give  it  back  to  him 
to-day,  but  this  morning  there  was  an  'ad'  in 
the  paper— reward  and  no  questions  asked — so 
we  sent  a  nice  bright  boy  over  to  the  Argonaut 
Club  with  the  wallet.  Perkins  gave  the  boy  a 
fifty-dollar  note — very  liberal,  I  call  it — and  the 
boy  gave  it  to  me.  Perfectly  legitimate  trans 
action.  Our  friend  here  has  had  a  lesson,  we've 
had  a  delightful  luncheon  party,  and  the  joke  is 
on  him. ' ' 

"And  a  pretty  good  joke,  too!"  laughed  Old 
Man  Sprott. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Ooley-cow  at  last,  "a  pretty 
good  joke.  Ha,  ha!  A  mighty  good  joke." 
And  place  it  to  his  credit  that  he  managed  a 
very  fair  imitation  of  a  fat  man  laughing,  even 
to  the  shaking  of  the  stomach  and  the  wrinkles 
round  the  eyes.  He  looked  down  at  the  tray  in 
front  of  him  and  fingered  the  few  bills  and  some 
loose  silver. 

"A  mighty  good  joke,"  he  repeated  thought 
fully,  "but  what  I  can't  understand  is  this — why 

[276] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


didn't  you  two  jokers  keep  the  change?     It 
would  have  been  just  that  much  funnier." 


in 


The  Ooley-cow's  party  wras  generally  dis 
cussed  during  the  next  ten  days,  the  consensus 
of  club  opinion  being  that  some  one  ought  to 
teach  Poindexter  and  Sprott  the  difference  be 
tween  humour  and  petty  larceny.  Most  of  the 
playing  members  were  disgusted  with  the  two 
old  skinflints,  and  one  effect  of  this  sentiment 
manifested  itself  in  the  number  of  invitations 
that  Perkins  received  to  play  golf  with  real  peo 
ple.  He  declined  them  all,  much  to  our  surprise, 
and  continued  to  wallop  his  way  round  the 
course  with  Uncle  Billy  and  Old  Man  Sprott, 
apparently  on  as  cordial  terms  as  ever. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  such  a  be 
sotted  old  fool  as  that?"  asked  Henry  Bauer. 
"Here  I've  invited  him  into  three  foursomes 
this  week — all  white  men,  too — and  he 's  turned 
me  down  cold.  It's  not  that  we  want  to  play 
with  him,  for  as  a  golfer  he's  a  terrible  thing. 
It's  not  that  we're  crazy  about  him  personally, 
for  socially  he's  my  notion  of  zero  minus;  but 
he  took  his  stinging  like  a  dead-game  sport  and 
he's  entitled  to  better  treatment  than  he's  get 
ting.  But  if  he  hasn't  any  better  sense  than  to 
pass  his  plate  for  more,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?" 

[277] 


FOKE! 

"  'Ephraim  is  joined  to  idols,'  "  quoted  Lit 
tle  Doc  Ellis.  " 'Let  Mm  alone.' " 

"No,  it's  the  other  way  round,"  argued 
Bauer.  "His  idols  are  joined  to  him — fastened 
on  like  leeches.  The  question  naturally  arises, 
how  did  such  a  man  ever  accumulate  a  fortune? 
Who  forced  it  on  him,  and  when,  and  where, 
and  why?" 

That  very  afternoon  the  Ooley-cow  turned  up 
with  his  guest,  a  large,  loud  person,  also  from 
the  Heidelberg  of  America,  who  addressed  Per 
kins  as  "Wesley,"  and  lost  no  time  in  inform 
ing  us  that  Southern  California  would  have 
starved  to  death  but  for  Iowa  capital.  His  name 
was  Cottle — Calvin  D.  Cottle — and  he  gave  each 
one  of  us  his  card  as  he  was  introduced.  There 
was  no  need.  Nobody  could  have  forgotten  him. 
Some  people  make  an  impression  at  first  sight 
—Calvin  D.  Cottle  made  a  deep  dent.  His  age 
was  perhaps  forty-five,  but  he  spoke  as  one 
crowned  with  Methuselah's  years  and  Sol 
omon's  wisdom,  and  after  each  windy  statement 
he  turned  to  the  Ooley-cow  for  confirmation. 

"Ain't  that  so,  Wesley?  Old  Wes  knows, 
you  bet  your  life !  He's  from  my  home  town ! ' ' 

It  was  as  good  as  a  circus  to  watch  Uncle 
Billy  and  Old  Man  Sprott  sizing  up  this  fresh 
victim.  It  reminded  me  of  two  wary  old  dogs 
circling  for  position,  manoeuvring  for  a  safe 
hold.  They  wanted  to  know  something  about 
his  golf  game — what  was  his  handicap,  for  in 
stance  ? 

[278] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


"Handicap?"  repeated  Cottle.  "Is  that  a 
California  idea?  Something  new,  ain't  it?" 

Uncle  Billy  explained  the  handicapping  the 
ory. 

"Oh!"  said  Cottle.  "You  mean  what  do  I 
go  round  in — how  many  strokes.  Well,  some 
times  I  cut  under  a  hundred ;  sometimes  I  don't. 
It  just  depends.  Some  days  I  can  hit  'em,  some 
days  I  can't.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"My  case  exactly,"  purred  Old  Man  Sprott. 
"Suppose  we  dispense  with  the  handicap!" 

"That's  the  stuff!"  agreed  Cottle  heartily. 
"I  don't  want  to  have  to  give  anybody  any 
thing;  I  don't  want  anybody  to  give  me  any 
thing.  I  like  an  even  fight,  and  what  I  say  is, 
may  the  best  man  win!  Am  I  right,  gentle 
men?" 

"Absolutely!"  chirped  Uncle  Billy.  "May 
the  best  man  win ! ' ' 

' '  You  bet  I  'm  right ! ' '  boomed  Cottle.  < '  Ask 
old  Wes  here  about  me.  Eaised  right  in  the 
same  town  with  him,  from  a  kid  knee-high  to  a 
grasshopper !  I  never  took  any  the  best  of  it  in 
my  life,  did  I,  Wes?  No,  you  bet  not!  Ke- 
member  that  time  I  got  skinned  out  of  ten  thou 
sand  bucks  on  the  land  deal?  A  lot  of  fellows 
would  have  squealed,  wouldn't  they?  A  lot  of 
fellows  would  have  hollered  for  the  police ;  but 
I  just  laughed  and  gave  'em  credit  for  being 
smarter  than  I  was.  I'm  the  same  way  in  sport 
as  I  am  in  business.  I  believe  in  giving  every 
body  credit.  I  win  if  I  can,  but  if  I  can't — well, 

[279] 


FOEE! 

there's  never  any  hard  feelings.  That's  me  all 
over.  You  may  be  able  to  lick  me  at  this  golf 
thing — likely  you  will;  but  you'll  never  scare 
me,  that's  a  cinch.  Probably  you  gentlemen 
play  a  better  game  than  I  do — been  at  it  longer ; 
but  then  I'm  a  lot  younger  than  you  are.  Got 
more  strength.  Hit  a  longer  ball  when  I  do 
manage  to  land  on  one  right.  So  it  all  evens  up 
in  the  long  run. ' ' 

Mr.  Cottle  was  still  modestly  cheering  his 
many  admirable  qualities  when  the  Perkins 
party  went  in  to  luncheon,  and  the  only  pause  he 
made  was  on  the  first  tee.  With  his  usual  caution 
Uncle  Billy  had  arranged  it  so  that  Dubuque 
was  opposed  to  Southern  California,  and  he  had 
also  carefully  neglected  to  name  any  sort  of  a 
bet  until  after  he  had  seen  the  stranger  drive. 

Cottle  teed  his  ball  and  stood  over  it,  grip 
ping  his  driver  until  his  knuckles  showed  white 
under  the  tan.  "Get  ready  to  ride!"  said  he. 
"You're  about  to  leave  this  place !" 

The  club  head  whistled  through  the  air,  and 
I  can  truthfully  say  that  I  never  saw  a  man  of 
his  size  swing  any  harder  at  a  golf  ball — or 
come  nearer  cutting  one  completely  in  two. 

"Topped  it,  by  gum!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Cottle, 
watching  the  maimed  ball  until  it  disappeared 
in  a  bunker.  "Topped  it!  Well»  better  luck 
next  time!  By  the  way,  what  are  we  playing 
for?  Balls,  or  money,  or  what?" 

"Whatever  you  like,"  said  Uncle  Billy 
promptly.  * '  You  name  it. ' ' 

[280] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


"Good!  That's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  a  mart 
talk.  Old  Wes  here  is  my  partner,  so  I  can't 
bet  with  him,  but  I'll  have  a  side  match  with 
each  of  you  gentlemen — say,  ten  great,  big, 
smiling  Iowa  dollars.  Always  like  to  bet  what 
I've  got  the  most  of.  Satisfactory?" 

Uncle  Billy  glanced  at  Old  Man  Sprott,  and 
for  an  instant  the  old  rascals  hesitated.  The 
situation  was  made  to  order  for  them,  but  they 
would  have  preferred  a  smaller  wager  to  start 
with,  being  petty  larcenists  at  heart. 

"Better  cut  that  down  to  five,"  said  Perkins 
to  Cottle  in  a  low  tone.  "They  play  a  strong 
game." 

'  *  Humph ! ' '  grunted  his  guest.  ' '  Did  you  ever 
know  me  to  pike  in  my  life?  I  ain't  going  to 
begin  now.  Ten  dollars  or  nothing!" 

"I've  got  you,"  said  Old  Man  Sprott. 

'  *  This  once, ' '  said  Uncle  Billy.  "  It 's  against 
my  principles  to  play  for  money;  but  yes,  this 
once. ' ' 

And  then  those  two  old  sharks  insisted  on  a 
foursome  bet  as  well. 

"Ball,  ball,  ball,"  said  the  Ooley-cow  briefly, 
and  proceeded  to  follow  his  partner  into  the 
bunker.  Poindexter  and  Sprott  popped  con 
servatively  down  the  middle  of  the  course  and 
the  battle  was  on. 

Battle,  did  I  say?  It  was  a  massacre  of  the 
innocents,  a  slaughter  of  babes  and  sucklings. 
Our  foursome  trailed  along  behind,  and  took 
note  of  Mr.  Cottle,  of  Dubuque,  in  his  fruitless 

[281] 


POKE! 

efforts  to  tear  the  cover  off  the  ball.  He  swung 
hard  enough  to  knock  down  a  lamp-post,  but  he 
seldom  made  proper  connections,  and  when  he 
did  the  ball  landed  so  far  off  the  course  that  it 
took  him  a  dozen  shots  to  get  back  again.  He 
was  hopelessly  bad,  so  bad  that  there  was  no 
chance  to  make  the  side  matches  close  ones.  On 
the  tenth  tee  Cottle  demanded  another  bet — to 
give  him  a  chance  to  get  even,  he  said.  Pom- 
dexter  and  Sprott  each  bet  him  another  ten  dol 
lar  note  on  the  last  nine,  and  this  time  Uncle 
Billy  did  not  say  anything  about  his  principles. 

After  it  was  all  over  Cottle  poured  a  few  mint 
toddies  into  his  system  and  floated  an  alibi  to 
the  surface. 

"It  was  those  confounded  sand  greens  that 
did  it,"  said  he.  "I'm  used  to  grass,  and  I 
can't  putt  on  anything  else.  Bet  I  could  take 
you  to  Dubuque  and  flail  the  everlasting  day 
lights  out  of  you!" 

"Shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Uncle  Billy. 
"You  did  a  lot  better  on  the  last  nine — sort  of 
got  into  your  stride.  Any  time  you  think  you 
want  revenge " 

"You  can  have  it,"  finished  Old  Man  Sprott, 
as  he  folded  a  crisp  twenty-dollar  note.  "We 
believe  in  giving  a  man  a  chance — eh,  Billy  ? ' ' 

"That's  the  spirit!"  cried  Cottle  enthusiasti 
cally.  "Give  a  man  a  chance;  it's  what  I  say, 
and  if  he  does  anything,  give  him  credit.  You 
beat  me  to-day,  but  I  never  saw  this  course  be 
fore.  Tell  you  what  we'll  do:  Let's  make  a 

[282] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


day  of  it  to-morrow.  Morning  and  afternoon 
both.  Satisfactory?  Good!  You've  got  forty 
dollars  of  my  dough  and  I  want  it  back.  No 
body  ever  made  me  quit  betting  yet,  if  I  figure 
to  have  a  chance.  What's  money?  Shucks! 
My  country  is  full  of  it!  Now  then,  Wesley, 
if  you  '11  come  out  on  the  practise  green  and  give 
me  some  pointers  on  this  sand  thing,  I'll  be 
obliged  to  you.  Ball  won't  run  on  sand  like  it 
will  on  grass — have  to  get  used  to  it.  Have  to 
hit  'em  a  little  harder.  Soon  as  I  get  the  hang 
of  the  thing  we  '11  give  these  Native  Sons  a  bat 
tle  yet!  Native  Sons?  Native  Grandfathers! 
Come  on!"  Uncle  Billy  looked  at  Old  Man 
Sprott  and  Old  Man  Sprott  looked  at  Uncle 
Billy,  but  they  did  not  begin  to  laugh  until  the 
Ooley-cow  and  his  guest  were  out  of  earshot. 
Then  they  clucked  and  cackled  and  choked  like 
a  couple  of  hysterical  old  hens. 

"His  putting!"  gurgled  Uncle  Billy.  "Did 
he  have  a  putt  to  win  a  hole  all  the  way  round?" 

"Not  unless  he  missed  count  of  his  shots. 
Say,  Billy!" 

"Well?" 

"We  made  a  mistake  locating  so  far  West. 
We  should  have  stopped  in  Iowa.  By  now  we'd 
have  owned  the  entire  state ! ' ' 


IV 

I  dropped  Mr.  Calvin  D.  Cottle  entirely  out 
of  my  thoughts ;  but  when  I  entered  the  locker 
[283] 


FORE! 

room  shortly  after  noon  the  next  day  something 
reminded  me  of  him.  Possibly  it  was  the  sound 
of  his  voice. 

"Boy!  Can't  we  have  'nother  toddy  here? 
What's  the  matter  with  some  service?  How 
'bout  you,  Wes?  Oh,  I  forgot — you  never  take 
anything  till  after  five  o  'clock.  Think  of  all  the 
fun  you're  missing.  When  I  get  to  be  an  old 
fossil  like  you  maybe  I'll  do  the  same.  Good 
rule.  .  .  .  You  gentlemen  having  any  thing?  No? 
Kind  of  careful,  ain't  you?  Safety  first,  hey? 
.  .  .  Just  one  toddy,  boy,  and  if  that  mint  ain't 
fresh,  I'll  ...  Yep,  you're  cagey  birds,  you 
are,  but  I  give  you  credit  just  the  same.  And 
some  cash.  Don't  forget  that.  Eather  have 
cash  than  credit  any  time,  hey?  I  bet  you 
would !  But  I  don't  mind  a  little  thing  like  that. 
I'm  a  good  sport.  You  ask  Wes  here  if  I  ain't. 
If  I  ain't  a  good  sport  I  ain't  anything.  .  .  . 
Still,  I'll  be  darned  if  I  see  how  you  fellows  do 
it!  You're  both  old  enough  to  have  sons  in  the 
Soldiers'  Home  over  yonder,  but  you  take  me 
out  and  lick  me  again — lick  me  and  make  me 
like  it !  A  couple  of  dried-up  mummies  with  one. 
foot  in  the  grave,  and  I'm  right  in  the  prime  of 
life!  Only  a  kid  yet!  It's  humiliating,  that's 
what  it  is,  humiliating!  Forty  dollars  apiece 
you're  into  me — and  a  flock  of  golf  balls  on  the 
side!  Boy!  Where's  that  mint  toddy?  Let's 
have  a  little  service  here ! ' ' 

I  peeped  through  the  door  leading  to  the 
lounging  room.  The  Dubuque-California  four- 
[284] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


some  was  grouped  at  a  table  in  a  corner.  The 
Ooley-cow  looked  calm  and  placid  as  usual,  but 
his  gnest  was  sweating  profusely,  and  as  he 
talked  he  mopped  his  brow  with  the  sleeve  of 
his  shirt.  Uncle  Billy  and  Old  Man  Sprott  were 
listening  politely,  but  the  speculative  light  in 
their  eyes  told  me  that  they  were  wondering 
how  far  they  dared  go  with  this  outlander  from 
the  Middle  West. 

"Why,"  boomed  Cottle,  "I  can  hit  a  ball 
twice  as  far  as  either  one  of  you!  'Course  I 
don't  always  know  where  it's  going,  but  the 
main  thing  is  I  got  the  strength.  I  can  throw  a 
golf  ball  farther  than  you  old  fossils  can  hit 
one  with  a  wooden  club,  yet  you  lick  me  easy  as 
breaking  sticks.  Can't  understand  it  at  all. 
.  .  .  Twice  as  strong  as  you  are.  .  .  .  Why,  say, 
I  bet  I  can  take  one  hand  and  outdrive  you! 
One  hand!" 

"Easy,  Calvin,"  said  the  Ooley-cow  reprov 
ingly.  ' '  Don 't  make  wild  statements. ' ' 

"Well,  I'll  bet  I  can  do  it,"  repeated  Cottle 
stubbornly.  "If  a  man's  willing  to  bet  his 
money  to  back  up  a  wild  statement,  that  shows 
he's  got  the  right  kind  of  a  heart  anyway. 

"I  ought  to  be  able  to  stick  my  left  hand  in 
my  pocLet  and  go  out  there  and  trim  two  men 
of  your  age.  I  ought  to,  and  I  '11  be  damned  if 
I  don't  think  I  can!" 

'  *  Tut,  tut ! "  warned  the  Ooley-cow.  ' '  That 's 
foolishness." 

' '  Think  so  ? "  Cottle  dipped  his  hand  into  his 
[285] 


FORE! 

pocket  and  brought  out  a  thick  roll  of  bills. 
"Well,  this  stuff  here  says  I  can  do  it — at  least 
I  can  try — and  I  ain't  afraid  to  back  my  judg 
ment.  ' ' 

"Put  your  money  away,"  said  Perkins. 
"Don't  be  a  fool!" 

Cottle  laughed  uproariously  and  slapped  the 
Ooley-cow  on  the  back. 

"Good  old  Wes!"  he  cried.  "Ain't  changed 
a  bit.  Conservative!  Always  conservative! 
Got  rich  at  it,  but  me  I  got  rich  taking  chances. 
What's  a  little  wad  of  bills  to  me,  hey?  Noth 
ing  but  chicken-feed!  I'll  bet  any  part  of  this 
roll — I'll  bet  all  of  it — and  I'll  play  these  sun- 
dried  old  sports  with  one  hand.  Now's  the  time 
to  show  whether  they've  got  any  sporting  blood 
or  not.  What  do  you  say,  gentlemen?" 

Uncle  Billy  looked  at  the  money  and  mois 
tened  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"Couldn't  think  of  it,"  he  croaked  at  length. 

"Pshaw!"  sneered  Cottle.  "I  showed  you 
too  much — I  scared  you ! ' ' 

"He  ain't  scared,"  put  in  Old  Man  Sprott. 
"It  would  be  too  much  like  stealing  it." 

"I'm  the  one  to  worry  about  that,"  an 
nounced  Cottle.  "It's  my  money,  ain't  it!  I 
made  it,  didn't  I?  And  I  can  do  what  I  damn 
please  with  it — spend  it,  bet  it,  burn  it  up,  throw 
it  away.  When  you've  worried  about  every 
thing  else  in  the  world  it'll  be  time  for  you  to 
begin  worrying  about  young  Mr.  Cottle 's 
money!  This  slim  little  roll — bah!  Chicken- 

[286] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


feed!  Come  get  it  if  you  want  it !"  He  tossed 
the  money  on  the  table  with  a  gesture  which  was 
an  insult  in  itself.  * '  There  it  is — cover  it !  Put 
up  or  shut  up ! " 

''Oh,  forget  it!"  said  the  Ooley-cow  wearily. 
' '  Come  in  and  have  a  bite  to  eat  and  forget  it ! " 

"Don't  want  anything  to  eat!"  was  the  stub 
born  response.  "Seldom  eat  in  the  middle  of 
the  day.  But  I'll  have  'nother  mint  toddy.  .  .  . 
Wait  a  second,  Wes.  Don't  be  in  such  a  rush. 
Lemme  understand  this  thing.  These — these 
gentlemen  here,  these  two  friends  of  yours, 
these  dead-game  old  Native  Sons  have  got 
eighty  dollars  of  my  money — not  that  it  makes 
any  difference  to  me,  understand,  but  they've 
got  it — eighty  dollars  that  they  won  from  me 
playing  golf.  Now  I  may  have  a  drink  or  two 
in  me  and  I  may  not,  understand,  but  anyhow 
I  know  what  I'm  about.  I  make  these — gentle 
men  a  sporting  proposition.  I  give  'em  a  chance 
to  pick  up  a  couple  of  hundred  apiece,  and  they 
want  to  run  out  on  me  because  it  '11  be  like  steal 
ing  it.  What  kind  of  a  deal  is  that,  hey?  Is  it 
sportsmanship?  Is  it  what  they  call  giving  a 
man  a  chance?  Is  it " 

'  *  But  they  know  you  wouldn't  have  a  chance, ' ' 
interrupted  the  Ooley-cow  soothingly.  "They 
don't  wane  a  sure  thing." 

"They've  had  one  so  far,  haven't  they?" 
howled  Cottle.  "What  are  they  scared  of  now? 
'Fraid  I'll  squeal  if  I  lose?  Tell  'em  about  me, 
Wes.  Tell  'em  I  never  squealed  in  my  life !  I 

[2871 


TORE! 

win  if  I  can,  but  if  I  can't — 's  all  right.  No 
kick  coming.  There  never  was  a  piker  in  the 
Cottle  family,  was  there,  Wes?  No,  you  bet 
not!  We're  sports,  every  one  of  us.  Takes 
more  than  one  slim  little  roll  to  send  us  up  a 
tree!  If  there's  anything  that  makes  me  sick, 
it's  a  cold-footed,  penny-pinching,  nickel-nurs 
ing,  sure-thing  player!" 

"Your  money  does  not  frighten  me,"  said 
Uncle  Billy,  who  was  slightly  nettled  by  this 
time.  "  It  is  against  my  principles  to  play  for  a 
cash  bet " 

"But  you  and  your  pussy-footed  old  side- 
partner  got  into  me  for  eighty  dollars  just  the 
same!"  scoffed  Cottle.  "You  and  your  prin 
ciples  be  damned!" 

Uncle  Billy  swallowed  this  without  blinking, 
but  he  did  not  look  at  Cottle.  He  was  looking 
at  the  roll  of  bills  on  the  table. 

"If  you  are  really  in  earnest "  began 

Poindexter,  and  glanced  at  Old  Man  Sprott. 

* '  Go  ahead,  Billy, ' '  croaked  that  aged  repro 
bate.  "Teach  him  a  lesson.  He  needs  it." 

"Never  mind  the  lesson,"  snapped  Cottle. 
"I  got  out  of  school  a  long  time  ago.  The  bet 
is  that  I  can  leave  my  left  arm  in  the  club 
house  safe — stick  it  in  my  pocket — and  trim  you 
birds  with  one  hand." 

"We  wouldn't  insist  on  that,"  said  Old  Man 
Sprott.  ' '  Play  with  both  hands  if  you  want  to. ' ' 

"Think  I'm  a  welsher?"  demanded  Cottle. 
"The  original  proposition  goes.  'Course  I 

[288] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


wouldn't  really  cut  the  arm  off  and  leave  it  in 
the  safe,  but  what  I  mean  is,  if  I  use  two  arms 
in  making  a  shot,  right  there  is  where  I  lose. 
Satisfactory?" 

"Perkins,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  solemnly  wag 
ging  his  head,  "you  are  a  witness  that  this 
thing  has  been  forced  on  me.  I  have  been 
bullied  and  browbeaten  and  insulted  into  making 
this  bet " 

"And  so  have  I,"  chimed  in  Old  Man  Sprott. 
"I'm  almost  ashamed " 

The  Ooley-cow  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  am  a  witness,"  said  he  quietly.  "Calvin, 
these  gentlemen  have  stated  the  case  correctly. 
You  have  forced  them  to  accept  your  proposi 
tion " 

"And  he  can't  blame  anybody  if  he  loses," 
finished  Uncle  Billy  as  he  reached  for  the  roll 
of  bills. 

' '  You  bet ! "  ejaculated  Old  Man  Sprott.  < <  He 
was  looking  for  trouble,  and  now  he's  found  it. 
Count  it,  Billy,  and  we'll  each  take  half." 

"That  goes,  does  it?"  asked  Cottle. 

"Sir?"  cried  Uncle  Billy. 

"Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  put  you  on  record," 
said  Cottle,  with  a  grin.  "Wesley,  you're  my 
witness  too.  I  mislaid  a  five-hundred-dollar 
note  the  other  day,  and  it  may  have  got  into  my 
change  pocket.  Might  as  well  see  if  a  big  bet 
will  put  these  safety-first  players  off  their 
game !  Anyhow,  I  'm  betting  whatever 's  there. 
I  ain't  sure  how  much  it  is." 
[289] 


FOKE! 

' '  I  am, ' '  said  Uncle  Billy  in  a  changed  voice. 
He  had  come  to  the  five-hundred-dollar  bill, 
sandwiched  in  between  two  twenties.  He  looked 
at  Old  Man  Sprott,  and  for  the  first  time  I  saw 
doubt  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  it's  there,  is  it?"  asked  Cottle  care 
lessly.  "Well,  let  it  all  ride.  I  never  backed 
up  on  a  gambling  proposition  in  my  life — never 
pinched  a  bet  after  the  ball  started  to  roll. 
Shoot  the  entire  works — 's  all  right  with  me!" 

Uncle  Billy  and  Old  Man  Sprott  exchanged 
significant  glances,  but  after  a  short  argument 
and  some  more  abuse  from  Cottle  they  toddled 
over  to  the  desk  and  filled  out  two  blank  checks 
— for  five  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  apiece. 

"Make  'em  payable  to  cash,"  suggested  Cot 
tle.  "You'll  probably  tear  'em  up  after  the 
game.  Now  the  next  thing  is  a  stakeholder " 

"Is  that — necessary?"  asked  Old  Man  Sprott. 

"Sure!"  said  Cottle.  "I  might  run  out  on 
you.  Let's  have  everything  according  to  Hoyle 
—stakeholder  and  all  the  other  trimmings. 
Anybody '11  be  satisfactory  to  me;  that  young 
fellow  getting  an  earful  at  the  door ;  he  '11  do. ' ' 

So  I  became  the  stakeholder — the  custodian 
of  eleven  hundred  and  sixty  dollars  in  coin  and 
two  checks  representing  a  like  amount.  I 
thought  I  detected  a  slight  nervousness  in  the 
signatures,  and  no  wonder.  It  was  the  biggest 
bet  those  old  petty  larcenists  had  ever  made  in 
their  lives.  They  went  in  to  luncheon — at  the 
invitation  of  the  Ooley-cow,  of  course — but  I 

[290] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


noticed  that  they  did  not  eat  much.  Cottle  wan 
dered  out  to  the  practise  green,  putter  in  hand, 
forgetting  all  about  the  mint  toddy  which,  by 
the  way,  had  never  been  ordered. 


"You  drive  first,  sir,"  said  Uncle  Billy  to 
Cottle,  pursuing  his  usual  system.  "We'll  fol 
low  you." 

"Think  you'll  feel  easier  if  I  should  hit  one 
over  into  the  eucalyptus  trees  yonder?"  asked 
the  man  from  Dubuque.  "Little  nervous,  eh? 
Does  a  big  bet  scare  you!  I  was  counting  on 
that.  .  .  .  Oh,  very  well,  I'll  take  the  honour." 

"Just  a  second,"  said  Old  Man  Sprott,  who 
had  been  prowling  about  in  the  background  and 
fidgeting  with  his  driver.  "Does  the  stake 
holder  understand  the  terms  of  the  bet?  Mr. 
Cottle  is  playing  a  match  with  each  of  us  indi 
vidually " 

"Separately  and  side  by  each,"  added  Cottle. 

"Using  only  one  arm,"  said  Old  Man  Sprott. 

"If  he  uses  both  arms  in  making  a  shot,"  put 
in  Uncle  Billy,  "he  forfeits  both  matches.  Is 
that  correct,  Mr.  Cottle?" 

"Correct  as  hell!  Watch  me  closely,  young 
man.  I  have  no  moustache  to  deceive  you — 
nothing  up  my  sleeve  but  my  good  right  arm. 
Watch  me  closely!" 

He  teed  his  ball,  dropped  his  left  arm  at  his 
side,  grasped  the  driver  firmly  in  his  right  hand 

[291] 


FOKE  ! 

and  swung  the  club  a  couple  of  times  in  tenta 
tive  fashion.  The  head  of  the  driver  described 
a  perfect  arc,  barely  grazing  the  top  of  the  tee. 
His  two-armed  swing  had  been  a  thing  of  vio 
lence — a  baseball  wallop,  constricted,  bound  up, 
without  follow-through  or  timing,  a  combination 
of  brute  strength  and  awkwardness.  Uncle 
Billy's  chin  sagged  as  he  watched  the  easy,  nat 
ural  sweep  of  that  wTooden  club — the  wrist-snap 
applied  at  the  proper  time,  and  the  long  grace 
ful  follow-through  which  gives  distance  as  well 
as  direction.  Old  Man  Sprott  also  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  an  entirely  new  and  not  alto 
gether  pleasant  idea. 

" Watch  me  closely,  stakeholder,"  repeated 
Cottle,  addressing  the  ball.  "Nothing  up  my 
sleeve  but  my  good  right  arm.  Would  you  gen 
tlemen  like  to  have  me  roll  up  my  sleeve  before 
I  start?" 

*  *  Drive ! ' '  grunted  Uncle  Billy. 

"I'll  do  that  little  thing,"  said  Cottle,  and 
this  time  he  put  the  power  into  the  swing.  The 
ball,  caught  squarely  in  the  middle  of  the  club- 
face,  went  whistling  toward  the  distant  green, 
a  perfect  screamer  of  a  drive  without  a  sus 
picion  of  hook  or  slice.  It  cleared  the  cross- 
bunker  by  ten  feet,  carried  at  least  a  hundred 
and  eighty  yards  before  it  touched  grass,  and 
then  bounded  ahead  like  a  scared  rabbit,  coming 
to  rest  at  least  two  hundred  and  twenty-five 
yards  away.  "You  like  that?"  asked  Cottle, 
moving  off  the  tee.  "I  didn't  step  into  it  very 

[292] 


THE    UOLEY-COW 


hard  or  I  might  have  had  more  distance.  Satis 
factory,  stakeholder?"  And  he  winked  at  me 
openly  and  deliberately. 

"Wha — what  sort  of  a  game  is  this?"  gulped 
Old  Man  Sprott,  finding  his  voice  with  an  effort. 

"Why,"  said  Cottle,  smiling  cheerfully,  "I 
wouldn't  like  to  say  off-hand  and  so  early  in  the 
game,  but  you  might  call  it  golf.  Yes,  call  it 
golf,  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

At  this  point  I  wish  to  go  on  record  as  deny 
ing  the  rumour  that  our  two  old  reprobates 
showed  the  white  feather.  That  first  tee  shot, 
and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  made,  was 
enough  to  inform  them  that  they  were  up 
against  a  sickening  surprise  party;  but,  though 
startled  and  shaken,  they  did  not  weaken.  They 
pulled  themselves  together  and  drove  the  best 
they  knew  how,  and  I  realised  that  for  once  I 
was  to  see  their  true  golfing  form  uncovered. 

Cottle  tucked  his  wooden  club  under  his  arm 
and  started  down  the  course,  and  from  that  time 
on  he  had  very  little  to  say.  Uncle  Billy  and 
Old  Man  Sprott  followed  him,  their  heads  to 
gether  at  a  confidential  angle,  and  I  brought  up 
the  rear  with  the  Ooley-cow,  who  had  elected 
himself  a  gallery  of  one. 

The  first  hole  is  a  long  par  four.  Poindexter 
and  Sprott  usually  make  it  in  five,  seldom  get 
ting  home  with  their  seconds  unless  they  have  a. 
wind  behind  them.  Both  used  brassies  and  both 
were  short  of  the  green.  Then  they  watched 
Cottle  as  he  went  forward  to  his  ball. 

[293] 


FORE! 

"That  drive  might  have  been  a  freak  shot,'* 
quavered  Uncle  Billy. 

"Lucky  fluke,  that's  all,"  said  Old  Man 
Sprott,  but  I  knew  and  they  knew  that  they  only 
hoped  they  were  telling  the  truth. 

Cottle  paused  over  his  ball  for  an  instant, 
examined  the  lie  and  drew  a  wooden  spoon  from 
his  bag.  Then  he  set  himself,  and  the  next  in 
stant  the  ball  was  on  its  way,  a  long,  high  shot, 
dead  on  the  pin. 

"And  maybe  that  was  a  fluke !"  muttered  the 
Ooley-cow  under  his  breath.  "Look!  He's  got 
the  green  with  it !" 

From  the  same  distance  I  would  have  played 
a  full  mid-iron  and  trusted  in  Providence,  but 
Cottle  had  used  his  wood,  and  I  may  say  that 
never  have  I  seen  a  ball  better  placed.  It  car 
ried  to  the  little  rise  of  turf  in  front  of  the  put 
ting  green,  hopped  once,  and  trickled  onto  the 
sand.  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  appreciated 
that  spoon  shot. 

"Say,"  yapped  Old  Man  Sprott,  turning  to 
Perkins,  "what  are  we  up  against  here? 
Miracles?" 

' '  Yes,  what  have  you  framed  up  on  us  ?"  de 
manded  Uncle  Billy  vindictively. 

"Something  easy,  gentlemen,"  chuckled  the 
Ooley-cow.  "A  soft  thing  from  my  home  town. 
Probably  he's  only  lucky." 

The  two  members  of  the  Sure-Thing  Society 
went  after  their  customary  fives  and  got  them, 
but  Cottle  laid  his  approach  putt  stone  dead  at 

[294] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


the  cup  and  holed  out  in  four.  He  missed  a 
three  by  the  matter  of  half  an  inch.  I  could 
stand  the  suspense  no  longer.  I  took  Perkins 
aside  while  the  contestants  were  walking  to  the 
second  tee. 

• '  You  might  tell  a  friend, ' '  I  suggested.  ' i  In 
strict  confidence,  what  are  they  up  against  f ' ' 

" Something  easy,"  repeated  the  Ooley-cow, 
regarding  me  with  his  soft,  innocent  eyes. 
"They  wanted  it  and  now  they've  got  it." 

"But  yesterday,  when  he  played  with  both 
arms ' '  I  began. 

"That  was  yesterday,"  said  Perkins. 
"You'll  notice  that  they  didn't  have  the  de 
cency  to  offer  him  a  handicap,  even  when  they 
felt  morally  certain  that  he  had  made  a  fool  bet. 
Not  that  he  would  have  accepted  it — but  they 
didn't  offer  it.  They're  wolves,  clear  to  the 
bone,  but  once  in  a  while  a  wolf  bites  off  more 
than  he  can  chew. ' '  And  he  walked  away  from 
me.  Eight  there  I  began  reconstructing  my 
opinion  of  the  Ooley-cow. 

In  my  official  capacity  as  stakeholder  I  saw 
every  shot  that  was  played  that  afternoon.  I 
still  preserve  the  original  score  card  of  that 
amazing  round  of  golf.  There  are  times  when 
I  think  I  will  have  it  framed  and  present  it  to 
the  club,  with  red-ink  crosses  against  the  thir 
teenth  and  fourteenth  holes.  I  might  even  set  a 
red-ink  star  against  the  difficult  sixth  hole, 
where  Cottle  sent  another  tremendous  spoon 
shot  down  the  wind,  and  took  a  four  where  most 

[295] 


FOEE  ! 

of  our  Class-A  men  are  content  with  a  five.  I 
might  make  a  notation  against  the  tricky  ninth, 
where  he  played  a  marvellous  shot  out  of  a 
sand  trap  to  halve  a  hole  which  I  would  have 
given  up  as  lost.  I  might  make  a  footnote  call 
ing  attention  to  his  deadly  work  with  his  short 
irons.  I  say  I  think  of  all  these  things,  but  per 
haps  I  shall  never  frame  that  card.  The  two 
men  most  interested  will  never  forget  the  fig 
ures.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  Old  Man  Sprott, 
playing  such  golf  as  I  had  never  seen  him  play 
before,  succumbed  at  the  thirteenth  hole,  six 
down  and  five  to  go.  Uncle  Billy  gave  up  the 
ghost  on  the  fourteenth  green,  five  and  four, 
and  I  handed  the  money  and  the  checks  to  Mr. 
Calvin  D.  Cottle,  of  Dubuque.  He  pocketed  the 
loot  with  a  grin. 

' '  Shall  we  play  the  bye-holes  for  something? ' ' 
he  asked.  '  *  A  drink — or  a  ball,  maybe  f ' '  And 
then  the  storm  broke.  I  do  not  pretend  to  quote 
the  exact  language  of  the  losers.  I  merely  state 
that  I  was  surprised,  yes,  shocked  at  Uncle  Billy 
Poindexter.  I  had  no  idea  that  a  member  of  the 
Episcopal  church — but  let  that  pass.  He  was 
not  himself.  He  was  the  biter  bitten,  the  milker 
milked.  It  makes  a  difference.  Old  Man  Sprott 
also  erupted  in  an  astounding  manner.  It  was 
the  Ooley-cow  who  took  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

"Just  a  minute,  gentlemen,"  said  he.  "Do 
not  say  anything  which  you  might  afterward 
regret.  Remember  the  stakeholder  is  still  with 
us.  My  friend  here  is  not,  as  you  intimate,  a 

[296] 


THE    OOLEY-COW 


crook.  Neither  is  he  a  sure-thing  player.  We 
have  some  sure-thing  players  with  us,  but  he  is 
not  one  of  them.  He  is  merely  the  one-armed 
golf  champion  of  Dubuque — and  the  Middle 
West." 

Imagine  an  interlude  here  for  fireworks,  fol 
lowed  by  pertinent  questions. 

'  *  Yes,  yes,  I  know, ' '  said  Perkins  soothingly. 
"He  can't  play  a  lick  with  two  arms.  He  never 
could.  Matter  of  fact,  he  never  learned.  He 
fell  off  a  haystack  in  Iowa — how  many  years 
ago  was  it,  Cal?" 

"Twelve,"  said  Mr.  Cottle.  "Twelve  next 
July." 

"And  he  broke  his  left  arm  rather  badly," 
explained  the  Ooley-cow.  "Didn't  have  the  use 
of  it  for — how  many  years,  Cal?" 

"Oh,  about  six,  I  should  say." 

"Six  years.  A  determined  man  can  accom 
plish  much  in  that  length  of  time.  Cottle 
learned  to  play  golf  with  his  right  arm — fairly 
well,  as  you  must  admit.  Finally  he  got  the  left 
arm  fixed  up — they  took  a  piece  of  bone  out  of- 
his  shin  and  grafted  it  in — newfangled  idea. 
Decided  there  was  no  sense  in  spoiling  a  one- 
armed  star  to  make  a  dub  two-armed  golfer. 
Country  full  of  'em  already.  That's  the  whole 
story.  You  picked  him  for  an  easy  mark,  a  good 
thing.  You  thought  he  had  a  bad  bet  and  you 
had  a  good  one.  Don't  take  the  trouble  to  deny 
it.  Gentlemen,  allow  me  to  present  the  cham 
pion  one-armed  golfer  of  Iowa  and  the  Middle 
"West!" 

[297] 


FORE! 

"Yes,"  said  Cottle  modestly,  "when  a  man 
does  anything,  give  him  credit  for  it.  Person 
ally  I'd  rather  have  the  cash!" 

"How  do  you  feel  about  it  now?"  asked  the 
Ooley-cow. 

Judging  by  their  comments,  they  felt  warm — 
very  warm.  Hot,  in  fact.  The  Ooley-cow  made 
just  one  more  statement,  but  to  me  that  state 
ment  contained  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter. 

"This,"  said  he,  "squares  us  on  the  wallet 
proposition.  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it  at 
the  time,  but  that  struck  me  as  a  scaly  trick. 
So  I  invited  Cal  to  come  out  and  pay  me  a  visit. 
.  .  .  Shall  we  go  back  to  the  clubhouse?" 

I  made  Little  Doc  Ellis  see  the  point ;  perhaps 
I  can  make  you  see  it  now. 

Returning  to  the  original  simile,  the  Ooley- 
cow  was  willing  to  be  milked  for  golf  balls  and 
luncheons  and  caddie  hire.  That  was  legitimate 
milking,  and  he  did  not  resent  it.  He  would 
have  continued  to  give  down  in  great  abundance, 
but  when  they  took  fifty  dollars  from  him,  in  the 
form  of  a  bogus  reward,  he  kicked  over  the  buck 
et,  injured  the  milkers  and  jumped  the  fence. 

Why?  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  tell  you,  but 
did  you  ever  hear  of  a  country  cow — an  Iowa 
cow — that  would  stand  for  being  milked  from 
the  wrrong  side? 

I  think  this  will  be  all,  except  that  I  anticipate 
a  hard  winter  for  the  golfing  beginners  at  our 
club. 

[298] 


ADOLPHUS  AND  THE  BOUGH  DIAMOND 


NOW  that  Winthrop   Watson  Wilkins 
has  taken  his  clubs  away  and  cleaned 
out  his  locker  some  of  the  fellows  are 
ready  enough  to  admit  that  he  wasn't 
half  bad.    On  this  point  I  agree  with  them.    He 
was  not.    He  was  two-thirds  bad,  and  the  re 
mainder  was  pure,  abysmal,  impenetrable  ig 
norance. 

Windy  Wilkins  may  have  meant  well — per 
haps  he  did— but  when  a  fellow  doesn't  know, 
and  doesn't  know  that  he  doesn't  know  and 
won't  let  anybody  tell  him  that  he  doesn't  know, 
he  becomes  impossible  and  out  of  place  in  any 
respectable  and  exclusive  golf  club.  I  suppose 
his  apologists  feel  kindly  toward  him  for  elim 
inating  Adolphus  Kitts  and  squaring  about  a 
thousand  old  scores  with  that  person,  but  I 
claim  it  was  a  case  of  dog  eat  dog  and  neither 
dog  a  thoroughbred.  I  for  one  am  not  mourn 
ing  the  departure  of  Windy  Winkins,  and  if  I 
never  see  him  again,  I  will  manage  to  bear  it 
somehow. 

[299] 


FORE! 

They  say  that  every  golf  club  has  one  mem 
ber  who  slips  in  while  the  membership  commit 
tee  is  looking  the  other  way.  In  Windy 's  case 
the  committee  had  no  possible  excuse.  There 
was  an  excuse  for  Adolphus  Kitts.  Adolphus 
got  in  when  our  club  absorbed  the  Crystal 
Springs  Country  Club,  and  out  of  courtesy  we 
did  not  scrutinise  the  Crystal  Springs  member 
ship  list,  but  Windy 's  name  was  proposed  in 
the  regular  manner.  All  that  was  known  of  him 
was  that  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  community 
who  had  presumably  never  been  in  jail  and  who 
had  money.  The  club  didn't  need  his  initiation 
fee  and  wasn't  after  new  members,  but  for 
some  reason  or  other  the  bars  were  down  and 
Windy  got  in.  The  first  thing  we  knew  he 
landed  in  our  midst  with  a  terrific  splash  and 
began  slapping  total  strangers  on  the  back  and 
trying  to  sign  all  the  tags  and  otherwise  making 
an  ass  of  himself.  He  didn't  wait  for  intro 
ductions — just  butted  in  and  took  things  for 
granted. 

"You  see,  boys,"  he  explained,  "I've  always 
been  more  or  less  of  an  ath-a-lete  and  I've  tried 
every  game  but  this  one.  Now  that  I'm  gettin' 
to  the  time  of  life  when  I  can't  stand  rough  ex 
ercise  any  more,  I  thought  I'd  kind  of  like  to 
take  up  golf.  I  wrould  have  done  it  when  I  lived 
in  Chicago,  but  my  friends  laughed  me  out  of  it 
— said  it  was  silly  to  get  cut  and  whale  a  little 
white  pill  around  the  country — but  I  guess  any 
thing  that  makes  a  man  sweat  is  healthy,  heyf 

[300] 


ADOLPHUS   AND    THE    BOUGH    DIAMOND 

And  then  my  wife  thought  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  socially,  you  know,  and — no,  waiter,  this 
round  is  on  me.  Oh,  but  I  insist!  My  card, 
gentlemen.  That's  right;  keep  'em.  I  get  'em 
engraved  by  the  thousand.  "Waiter!  Bring 
some  cigars  here — perfectos,  cigarettes — any 
thing  the  gentlemen '11  have,  and  let  it  be  the 
best  in  the  house!  I  don't  smoke  cigarettes 
myself,  but  my  friends  tell  me  that's  the  next 
step  after  takin'  up  golf!  Ho,  ho!  No  offence 
to  any  of  you  boys ;  order  cigarettes  if  you  want 
'em.  Everybody  smokes  on  the  new  member !" 

Well,  that  was  Windy 's  tactful  method  of  in 
troducing  himself.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  we 
asked  questions  of  the  membership  committee? 
No  out-and-out  complaints,  you  understand. 
We  just  wanted  to  know  where  Windy  came 
from  and  how  he  got  in  and  who  was  to  blame 
for  it.  Most  of  the  information  was  furnished 
by  Cupid  Cutts. 

Cupid  is  pretty  nearly  the  whole  thing  at 
our  club.  In  every  golf  club  there  is  one  man 
who  does  the  lion's  share  of  the  work  and  gets 
nothing  but  abuse  and  criticism  for  it,  and 
Cupid  is  our  golfing  wheel  horse,  as  you  might 
say.  He  is  a  member  of  the  board  of  directors, 
a  member  of  the  house  committee,  chairman  of 
the  greens  committee,  and  the  Big  Stick  on  the 
membership  committee.  He  is  also  the  official 
handicapper,  which  is  a  mighty  good  thing  to 
bear  in  mind  when  you  play  against  him.  I 
have  known  Cupid  to  cut  a  man's  handicap  six 
[3011 


FORE  ! 

strokes  for  beating  him  three  ways  on  a  ball- 
ball-ball  Nassau. 

Cutts  is  no  Chick  Evans,  or  anything  like 
that,  but,  considering  his  physical  limitations, 
he  is  a  remarkable  golfer  and  steady  as  an 
eight-day  clock.  He  is  so  fat  that  he  can't  take 
a  full-arm  swing  to  save  his  life,  but  his  little 
half-shot  pops  the  ball  straight  down  the  middle 
of  the  course  every  time,  and  he  plays  to  his 
handicap  with  a  persistency  that  has  broken 
many  a  youngster 's  heart.  Straight  on  the  pin 
all  the  time — that's  his  game,  and  whenever 
he's  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  cup  he's 
liable  to  lay  his  ball  dead. 

There  are  lots  of  things  I  might  tell  you 
about  Cupid  Cutts — he's  a  sort  of  social  Who's 
Who  in  white  flannels  and  an  obesity  belt,  and 
an  authority  on  scandal  and  gossip,  past  and 
present — but  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  that 
it  would  be  hard  to  get  on  without  him,  even 
harder  than  it  is  to  get  on  with  him.  Well,  we 
asked  Cupid  about  Windy  Wilkins,  and  Cupid 
went  to  the  bat  immediately. 

"Absolutely  all  right,  fellows,  oh,  absolutely! 
A  little  rough,  perhaps,  a  diamond  in  the 
rough,  but  a  good  heart.  And  all  kinds  of 
money.  He  won't  play  often  enough  to  bother 
anybody. ' ' 

That  was  where  Cupid  was  wrong  two  ways. 

Windy  played  every  day,  rain  or  shine,  and  he 

bothered  everybody.    He  was  just  as  noisy  on 

the  course  as  he  was  in  the  locker  room,  and 

[302] 


ADOLPHUS    AND    THE    EOUGH    DIAMOND 

when  he  missed  his  putt  on  the  eighteenth  green 
the  fellows  who  were  driving  off  at  No.  1  had  to 
wait  until  he  cooled  down.  And  when  he  man 
aged  to  hit  his  drive  clean  he  yelled  like  a  Co- 
manche  and  jumped  up  and  down  on  the  tee. 
He  did  all  the  things  that  can't  be  done,  and 
when  we  spoke  to  him  kindly  about  golfing 
etiquette  he  snorted  and  said  he  never  had 
much  use  for  red  tape  anyway  and  thought  it 
was  out  of  place  in  sport. 

He  tramped  around  on  the  greens  and  both 
ered  people  who  wanted  to  putt.  He  talked 
and  laughed  when  others  were  driving.  He 
played  out  of  his  turn.  He  drove  into  four 
somes  whenever  he  was  held  up  for  a  minute, 
just  to  let  the  players  know  that  he  was  behind 
'em. 

He  was  absolutely  impossible,  socially  and 
otherwise,  but  the  most  astonishing  thing  was 
the  way  he  picked  up  the  game  after  the  first 
month  or  so.  Windy  was  a  tremendously  big 
man  and  looked  like  the  hind  end  of  an  elephant 
in  his  knickers ;  but  for  all  his  size  he  developed 
a  powerful,  easy  swing  and  a  reasonable  amount 
of  accuracy.  As  for  form,  he  didn't  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word.  His  stance  was  never 
twice  the  same,  his  grip  was  a  relic  of  the  dark 
ages,  he  handled  his  irons  as  a  labouring  man 
handles  a  pick,  he  did  everything  that  the  books 
say  you  mustn't  do,  and,  in  spite  of  it,  his  game 
improved  amazingly.  And  he  called  us  mov 
ing-picture  golfers ! 

[303] 


FORE! 

"Every  move  a  picture!"  he  would  say. 
"You  have  to  plant  your  dear  little  feet  just  so. 
Your  tee  has  got  to  be  just  so  high.  Your  grip 
must  be  right  to  the  fraction  of  an  inch.  You 
must  waggle  the  club  back  and  forth  seven 
times  before  you  dare  to  swing  it,  and  then 
chances  are  you  don't  get  anywhere!  Step  up 
and  paste  her  on  the  nose  the  way  I  do !  Forget 
this  Miss  Nancy  stuff  and  hit  the  ball ! ' ' 

When  Windy  got  down  around  90  he  swelled 
all  out  of  shape,  and  the  next  step,  of  course, 
was  to  have  some  special  clubs  built  by  Mac- 
Leish,  the  professional.  They  were  such  queer- 
looking  implements  that  Cupid  joked  him  about 
them  one  Saturday  noon  in  the  locker  room. 
It  was  then  that  we  got  a  real  line  on  Windy, 
and  Cupid  found  out  that  even  a  rough  dia 
mond  may  have  a  cutting  edge. 

"You're  just  like  all  beginners,"  said  Cupid. 
"You  make  a  few  rotten  shots  and  then  think 
the  clubs  must  be  wrong.  The  regular  models 
aren't  good  enough  for  you.  You  have  to  have 
some  built  to  order,  with  bigger  faces  and  staffer 
shafts.  Get  it  into  your  head  that  the  trouble 
is  with  you,  not  with  the  club.  The  ball  will 
go  straight  if  you  hit  it  right. ' ' 

"Clubs  make  a  lot  of  difference,"  said 
Windy.  "Ten  strokes  anyway." 

"Nonsense!  A  good,  mechanical  golfer  can 
play  with  any  clubs ! ' ' 

"I  suppose  you  think  you  can  do  it?" 

* '  I  know  I  can. ' ' 

[304] 


ADOLPHUS   AND    THE   KOUGH   DIAMOND 

"  And  you  'd  bet  on  it  !" 
"Certainly." 

Windy  didn't  say  anything  for  as  much  as 
two  minutes.  The  rascal  was  thinking. 

"All  right,"  said  he  at  last.  "Tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  I'll  make  you  a  little  proposition.  You 
say  you  can  play  with  any  clubs.  Give  me  the 
privilege  of  pickin'  'em  out  for  you,  and  I'll 
bet  you  fifty  dollars  that  I  trim  you  on  an  even 
game — no  handicap." 

"Yes,  but  where  are  you  going  to  get  these 
clubs  for  me  to  play  with?  Off  a  scrap  pile  or 
something?" 

"Eight  out  of  MacLeish's  shop!  Brand-new 
stuff,  selected  from  the  regular  stock.  And 
I'll  go  against  you  even,  just  to  prove  that  you 
don't  know  it  all,  even  if  you  have  been  playin' 
golf  for  twenty  years ! ' ' 

It  was  a  flat,  out-and-out  challenge.  Cupid 
looked  Windy  up  and  down  with  a  pitying 
smile — the  same  smile  he  uses  when  an  18- 
handicap  man  asks  to  be  raised  to  24. 

"I'd  be  ashamed  to  rob  you,  Wilkins,"  said 
he. 

Windy  didn't  say  anything,  but  he  went  into 
his  locker  and  brought  out  a  roll  of  bills  about 
the  size  of  a  young  grindstone.  He  counted 
fifty  dollars  off  it,  and  you  couldn't  have  told 
the  difference.  It  looked  just  as  big  as  before. 
He  handed  the  fifty  to  me. 

"It  would  be  stealing  it,"  said  Cupid,  but 
there  was  a  hungry  look  in  his  eye. 
[305] 


FORE  ! 

it 


:If  you  get  away  with  it,"  said  Windy,  "I 
won't  complain  to  the  police.  Put  up  or  shut 
up." 

"Well,  it  looked  like  finding  the  money.  "We 
knew  that  Windy  couldn't  break  a  90  to  save 
his  life,  and  Cupid  had  done  the  course  in  an  84, 
using  nothing  but  a  putting  cleek. 

''How  many  clubs  can  I  have!"  asked  Cupid 
with  his  usual  caution  in  the  matter  of  bets. 

"Oh,  six  or  eight,"  answered  Windy. 
"Makes  no  difference  to  me." 

"  I'll  take  eight,  "said  Cupid  briskly.  < '  And 
if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  post  a  check.  I'm  not  in 
the  habit  of  carrying  the  entire  cash  balance  in 
my  jeans." 

"Fair  enough!"  said  Windy.  "You  boys  are 
all  witnesses  to  the  terms  of  this  bet.  I'm  to 
pick  out  eight  clubs — eight  new  ones — and  Cutts 
here  is  to  play  with  'em.  Is  that  understood!" 

1 '  Perfectly ! ' '  grinned  Cupid.  « '  It  '11  just  cost 
you  fifty  fish  to  find  out  that  a  mechanical  golfer 
can  lick  you  with  strange  weapons. ' ' 

Windy  went  out  and  Cupid  promised  us  all  a 
dinner  on  the  proceeds  of  the  match. 

"I  don't  want  the  fellow's  money,"  said  he, 
"but  Windy 's  entirely  too  fresh  for  a  new  mem 
ber.  A  beating  will  do  him  good  and  make  him 
humble.  Eight  clubs.  If  he  brings  me  only  two 
or  three  that  I  can  use — a  driver,  a  midiron, 
and  a  putter — I'll  hang  his  hide  on  the  fence  too 
easy.  He's  made  a  bad  bet." 

But  it  wasn't  such  a  bad  bet  after  all.  Windy 
[306], 


ADOLPHTJS    AND    THE    HOUGH    DIAMOND 

came  back  with  eight  clubs  in  the  crook  of  his 
arm,  and  when  Cupid  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
collection  he  howled  himself  purple  in  the  face, 
and  no  wonder.  Eight  nice,  new,  shiny,  mashie 
niblicks ! 

You  see,  nothing  was  said  about  the  sort  of 
clubs  "Windy  was  to  pick  out,  and  he  had  se 
lected  eight  of  the  same  pattern,  no  good  on 
earth  except  for  digging  out  of  bunkers  or  pop 
ping  the  ball  straight  up  in  the  air!  Harry 
Vardon  himself  can't  drive  with  a  mashie 
niblick ! 

"What  are  you  beefin'  about?"  asked  Windy. 
'  *  Eight  clubs,  you  said,  and  here  they  are.  Play 
or  pay." 

"Pay!  Why,  man  alive,  it's  a  catch  bet — a 
cinch  bet!  It's  not  being  done  this  year  at  all! 
It's  like  stealing  the  money!" 

"And  you  thought  you  could  steal  mine," 
was  the  cool  reply.  "You  thought  you  had  a 
cinch  bet,  didn't  you?  Be  honest  now.  Eight 
clubs,  by  the  terms  of  the  agreement,  and  you'll 
play  with  'em  or  forfeit  the  fifty." 

Cupid  looked  at  the  mashie  niblicks  and  then 
he  looked  at  Windy.  I  looked  at  him  too  and 
began  to  understand  how  he  got  his  money. 
His  face  was  as  hard  as  granite.  "You'd  col 
lect  that  sort  of  a  bet — from  a  friend?"  It  was 
Cupid's  last  shot. 

"Just  as  quick  as  you  would,"  said  Windy. 

"I'll  write  you  a  check,"  and  Cupid  turned 
on  his  heel  and  started  for  the  office. 
[307] 


FORE! 


Windy  tried  to  turn  it  into  a  joke — after  he 
got  the  check — but  nobody  seemed  to  know 
where  to  laugh,  and  following  that  little  inci 
dent  he  found  it  a  bit  hard  to  get  games. 
Whenever  Windy  was  hunting  a  match  the  four 
somes  were  full  and  there  was  nothing  doing. 
A  sensitive  man  would  have  suffered  tortures, 
but  Windy,  with  about  as  much  delicacy  as  a 
rhinoceros,  continued  to  infest  the  course 
morning,  noon,  and  night.  When  he  couldn't 
find  any  one  weak-minded  enough  to  play  with 
him  he  played  with  himself,  and  somehow  man 
aged  to  make  just  as  much  noise  as  ever  with 
only  a  caddie  to  talk  to. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Adolphus 
Kitts  returned  from  the  East,  barely  in  time  to 
shoot  a  91  in  the  qualifying  round  of  the  An 
nual  Handicap.  We  had  hoped  that  he  would 
miss  this  tournament,  but  no;  there  he  was, 
large  as  life — which  is  pretty  large — and  ugh' 
as  ever.  Grim  and  silent  and  nasty,  he  stepped 
out  on  No.  1  tee,  and  Cupid  Cutts  groaned  as 
he  watched  him  drive  off. 

"That  fellow,"  said  Cupid,  "would  hang  his 
harp  on  the  walls  of  the  New  Jerusalem  and 
come  back  from  the  golden  shore  just  to  get  into 
a  handicap  event,  where  nobody  wants  him,  no 
body  will  speak  to  him,  and  every  one  wishes 
him  an  ulcerated  tooth!  Why  didn't  he  stay  in 
the  East?" 

There  were  about  four  hundred  and  seventy- 
six  reasons  why  Adolphus  was  unpopular  with 
[308] 


ADOLPHUS    AND    THE    EOUGH    DIAMOND 

us ;  a  few  will  suffice.  In  the  first  place,  he  was 
a  cup  hunter.  He  had  an  unholy  passion  for 
silver  goblets  and  trophies  with  the  club  em 
blem  on  them,  and  he  preferred  a  small  silver 
vase — worth  not  to  exceed  three  dollars,  whole 
sale — to  the  respect  and  admiration  of  his  fel 
low  golfers.  Heaven  knows  why  he  wanted 
trophies !  They  are  never  any  good  unless  a 
man  has  friends  to  show  them  to ! 

In  the  second  place,  Adolphus  didn't  care 
how  he  won  a  cup,  and,  as  Cupid  used  to  say, 
the  best  club  in  his  bag  was  the  book  of  rules. 

If  you  don't  know  it  already,  I  must  tell  you 
that  golf  is  the  most  strictly  governed  game 
in  the  world,  and  also  the  most  ceremonious. 
It  is  as  full  of  "thou  shalt  nots"  as  the  com 
mandments.  There  are  rules  for  everything 
and  everybody  on  the  course,  and  the  breaking 
of  a  rule  carries  a  penalty  with  it — the  loss  of 
a  stroke  or  the  loss  of  a  hole,  as  the  case  may 
be.  Very  few  golfers  play  absolutely  to  the  let 
ter  of  the  law;  even  those  who  know  the  rules 
incur  penalties  through  carelessness,  and  in 
such  a  case  it  is  not  considered  sporting  to  de 
mand  the  pound  of  flesh ;  but  there  was  nothing 
sporting  about  Adolphus  Kitts. 

He  knew  every  obscure  rule  and  insisted  on 
every  penalty.  Question  him,  and  he  fished  out 
the  book.  That  book  of  rules  stiffened  his 
match  play  tremendously,  besides  making  his 
opponents  want  to  murder  him.  It  was  rather 
a  rotten  system,  but  Kitts  hadn't  a  drop  of 
[309] 


FORE! 

sporting  blood  in  his  whole  big  body,  and  the 
element  of  sportsmanship  didn't  enter  into  his 
calculations  at  all.  He  claimed  strokes  and 
holes  even  when  not  in  competition,  and  because 
of  this  he  found  it  difficult  to  obtain  partners 
or  opponents. 

"He's  a  golf  lawyer,  that's  what  he  is — a 
technical  lawyer!"  said  Cupid  one  day.  "And 
I  wouldn't  even  play  the  nineteenth  hole  with 
him — I  wouldn't,  on  a  bet!" 

Come  to  think  of  it,  that  is  about  the  bitterest 
thing  you  can  say  of  a  golfer. 


n 


Our  Annual  Handicap  is  the  blue-ribbon  event 
of  the  year  so  far  as  most  of  us  are  concerned. 
The  star  players  turn  up  their  noses  at  it  a 
bit,  but  that  is  only  because  they  realise  that 
they  have  a  mighty  slim  chance  to  carry  off  the 
cup.  The  high-handicap  men  usually  eliminate 
the  crack  performers,  which  is  the  way  it  should 
be.  What's  the  good  of  a  handicap  event  if  a 
scratch  man  is  to  win  it  every  year! 

Sixty-four  members  qualify  and  are  paired 
off  into  individual  matches,  which  are  played 
on  handicaps,  the  losers  dropping  out.  The 
man  who  "comes  through"  in  the  top  half  of 
the  drawing  meets  the  survivor  of  the  lower 
half  in  the  final  match  for  the  cup,  which  is  al 
ways  a  very  handsome  and  valuable  trophy, 
[310] 


ADOLPHUS   AND    THE   KOUGH    DIAMOND 

calculated  to  rouse  all  the  cupidity  in  a  cup 
hunter's  nature. 

When  the  pairings  were  posted  on  the  bulle 
tin  board  Kitts  was  in  the  upper  half  and 
Windy  in  the  lower  one.  Kitts  had  a  handicap 
of  8  strokes,  and  was  really  entitled  to  12,  but 
Cupid  wouldn't  listen  to  his  wails  of  anguish. 
Windy  was  a  12  man,  and  nobody  figured  the 
two  renegades  as  dangerous  until  the  sixty- 
four  entrants  had  narrowed  down  to  eight  sur 
vivors.  Kitts  had  won  his  matches  by  close 
margins,  but  Windy  had  simply  smothered  his 
opponents  by  lopsided  scores,  and  there  they 
were,  in  the  running  and  too  close  to  the  finals 
for  comfort. 

We  began  to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  Cupid 
read  the  riot  act  to  Dawson,  who  was  Windy 's 
next  opponent,  and  also  had  a  talk  with  Au 
brey,  who  was  to  meet  Kitts.  "Wilkins  and 
Kitts  must  be  stopped!"  raved  Cupid.  "We 
don't  want  'em  to  get  as  far  as  the  semifinals, 
and  it's  up  to  you  chaps  to  play  your  heads  off 
and  beat  these  rotters!" 

Dawson  and  Aubrey  saw  their  duty  to  the 
club,  but  that  was  as  far  as  they  got  with  it. 
Windy  talked  from  one  end  of  his  match  to  the 
other  and  made  Dawson  so  nervous  that  any 
one  could  have  beaten  him,  and  Kitts  pulled 
the  book  of  rules  on  Aubrey  and  literally  read 
him  out  of  the  contest. 

After  this  the  interest  in  the  tournament 
grew  almost  painful.  Overholzer  and  Watts 
[311] 


FORE! 

were  the  other  semifinalists,  and  we  told  them 
plainly  that  they  might  as  well  resign  from  the 
club  if  they  did  not  win  their  matches.  Over- 
holzer  spent  a  solid  week  practicing  on  his  ap 
proach  shots,  and  Watts  carried  his  putter  home 
with  him  nights,  but  it  wasn't  the  slightest  use. 
Windy  tossed  an  83  at  Overholzer,  along  with 
a  lot  of  noisy  conversation,  and  an  83  will  beat 
Overholzer  every  time  he  starts.  Poor  Watts 
went  off  his  drive  entirely  and  gave  such  a  piti 
ful  exhibition  that  Kitts  didn't  need  the  rule 
book  at  all. 

And  there  we  were,  down  to  the  finals  for  the 
beautiful  handicap  cup,  sixty-two  good  men 
and  true  eliminated,  and  a  pair  of  bounders 
lined  up  against  each  other  for  the  trophy ! 

"This,"  said  Cupid  Cutts,  "is  a  most  unfor 
tunate  situation.  I  can't  root  for  a  sure-thing 
gambler  and  daylight  highwayman  like  Wilk- 
ins,  and  as  for  the  other  fellow  I  hope  he  falls 
into  a  bunker  and  breaks  both  his  hind  legs  off 
short!  Think  of  one  of  those  fellows  carrying 
home  that  lovely  cup!  Ain't  it  enough  to  mako 
you  sick  1 ' ' 

It  made  us  all  sick,  nevertheless  quite  a  re 
spectable  gallery  assembled  to  watch  Wilking 
and  Kitts  play  their  match. 

"Looks  like  we're  goin'  to  have  a  crowd  for 
the  main  event!"  said  Windy,  who  had  put  in 
the  entire  morning  practicing  tee  shots.  "In 
that  case  I'll  buy  everybody  a  little  drink,  or 
sign  a  lunch  card — whatever 's  customary. 
[312] 


ADOLPHUS    AND    THE    ROUGH    DIAMOND 

Don't  be  bashful,  boys.  Might  as  well  drink 
with  the  winner  before  as  well  as  after,  you 
know ! ' ' 

At  this  point  Adolphus  came  in  from  the 
locker  room  and  there  was  an  embarrassed 
silence,  broken  at  last  by  Windy.  "  Somebody 
introduce  me  to  my  victim,"  said  he.  "  We've 
never  met." 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  exclaimed  Cupid.  "Of 
all  the  men  in  this  club,  I'd  think  you  fellows 
ought  to  know  each  other!  Kitts,  this  is  Wilk- 
ins — shake  hands  and  get  together!" 

Among  the  other  reasons  for  not  liking  him, 
Adolphus  had  a  face.  I'm  aware  that  a  man 
cannot  help  his  face,  but  he  can  make  it  easier 
to  look  at  by  wearing  a  pleasant  expression 
now  and  then.  Kitts  seldom  used  his  face  to 
smile  with.  As  he  turned  to  shake  hands  with 
Windy  I  noticed  that  his  left  hip  pocket  bulged 
a  trifle,  and  I  knew  that  Adolphus  was  taking 
no  chances.  That's  where  he  carries  the  book 
of  rules. 

"How  do,"  said  Kitts,  looking  hard  at 
Windy.  "I'm  ready  if  you  are,  sir." 

"Oh,  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry!"  said  Wilk- 
ins.  "We've  got  a  lot  of  drinks  comin'  here. 
Sit  down  and  have  one." 

"Thank  you,  I  never  drink,"  replied 
Adolphus. 

"Well,  then,  have  a  sandwich.  Might  as  well 
load  up;  you've  got  a  hard  afternoon  ahead  of 


you." 


[313] 


FOEE  I 


" Thanks,  I've  had  my  lunch." 

1  'Then  let's  talk  a  little,"  urged  Windy. 
" Let's  get  acquainted.  This  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  had  a  whack  at  a  cup,  and  I  don't  know 
how  to  act.  I  play  golf  by  main  strength  and 
awkwardness,  but  I  get  there  just  the  same. 
They  tell  me  you're  a  great  man  for  rules." 

Windy  paused,  but  Kitts  didn't  say  anything, 
and  Cupid  stepped  on  my  foot  under  the  table. 

"Now,  I  don't  go  very  strong  on  the  rules," 
continued  Windy  wheedlingly.  "I  like  to  play 
a  sporty  game — count  all  my  shots,  of  course — 
but  damn  this  technical  stuff  is  what  I  say.  For 
instance,  if  you  should  accidentally  tap  your 
ball  when  you  was  addressin'  it,  and  it  should 
turn  over,  I  wouldn't  call  a  stroke  on  you.  I'd 
be  ashamed  to  do  it.  If  I  win,  I  want  to  win  on 
my  playin',  and  not  on  any  technicalities.  Ain't 
that  the  way  you  feel  about  it,  hey?" 

Kitts  looked  uncomfortable,  but  he  wouldn't 
return  a  straight  answer  to  the  question.  He 
said  something  about  hoping  the  best  man 
would  win,  and  went  out  to  get  his  clubs. 

"Cheerful  kind  of  a  party,  ain't  he?"  said 
Windy.  "I've  told  him  where  I  stand.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  claim  anything  on  him  if  his  foot  slips, 
and  he  oughtn't  to  claim  anything  on  me.  If 
he's  a  real  sport,  he  won't.  What  do  you  boys 
think?" 

We  thought  a  great  deal,  but  nobody  offered 
any  advice. 

"Well,"  said  Windy,  getting  up  and  stretch- 
[314] 


ADOLPHUS   A1STD    THE   BOUGH    DIAMOND 

ing,  "he's  got  to  start  me  2  up,  on  handicap, 
and  I'm  drivin'  like  a  fool.  I  should  worry 
about  his  technicalities!" 


in 

Our  No.  1  hole  is  somewhere  around  450 
yards,  and  the  average  player  is  very  well  satis 
fied  if  he  fetches  the  putting  green  on  his  third 
shot.  It  is  uphill  all  the  way,  with  a  bunker  to 
catch  a  topped  drive,  rough  to  the  right  and 
left  to  punish  pulls  and  slices,  and  sand  pits 
guarding  the  green.  Windy  drove  first,  talking 
all  the  time  he  was  on  the  tee. 

"Hope  the  gallery  doesn't  make  you  nervous, 
Kitts.  I  always  drive  best  when  people  are 
watchin'  me,  but  then  I've  got  plenty  of  nerve, 
they  say.  You  may  not  like  my  stance,  but 
watch  this  one  sail!  And  when  I  address  the 
ball  I  address  it  in  a  few  brief,  burnin'  words, 
like  this:  'Take  a  ride,  you  little  white  devil, 
take  a  ride!"'  Whis-sh!  Click!  And  the  little 
white  devil  certainly  took  a  ride — long,  low, 
and  straight  up  the  middle  of  the  course — the 
ideal  ball,  with  just  enough  hook  on  it  to  make 
it  run  well  after  it  struck  the  ground.  "Two 
hundred  and  sixty  yards  if  it's  an  inch!"  said 
Windy,  grinning  at  Kitts.  "Lay  your  pill  be 
side  that  one — if  you  think  you  can ! ' ' 

"You're  a  12-handicap  man — and  you  drive 
like  that!"  said  Kitts,  which  was,  of  course,  a 
neat  slap  at  Cupid,  who  was  within  earshot. 
[315] 


FORE! 

"Cutts  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  bragged  Windy. 
"That's  why  I'm  a  12  man.  I  really  play  to 
a  6." 

Kitts  saw  that  he  wasn't  going  to  get  any 
goats  with  conversational  leads,  so  he  shut  up 
and  teed  his  ball.  He  was  one  of  those  deliber 
ate  players  who  must  make  just  so  many  mo 
tions  before  they  pull  off  their  shots.  First  he 
took  his  stance  and  his  practice  swings ;  then  he 
moved  up  on  the  ball  and  addressed  it ;  then  he 
waggled  his  club  back  and  forth  over  it,  look 
ing  up  the  course  after  every  waggle,  as  if  pick 
ing  out  a  nice  spot;  then,  when  he  had  annoyed 
everybody,  and  "Windy  most  of  all,  he  sent  a 
perfectly  atrocious  slice  into  the  rough  beyond 
the  bunker. 

"Humph!"  grunted  Wilkins,  "A  lot  of 
preparation  for  such  a  rotten  siiot !  Looks  like 
I'm  3  up  and  17  to  go.  Probably  won 't  be  much 
of  a  contest " 

"Do  you  expect  to  win  it  with  your  mouth?" 
snapped  Kitts,  and  Windy  winked  at  the  P6St 
of  us. 

"His  goat  is  loose  already!"  said  he  in  a 
stage  whisper.  * '  He  can 't  stand  the  gaff ! ' ' 

Adolphus  got  out  of  the  tall  grass  on  his 
third  shot,  but  dropped  his  fourth  into  a  deep 
sand  pit  short  of  the  green. 

"With  a  lot  of  luck,"  said  Windy,  reaching 

for  his  brassy,  "you  may  get  an  8 — but  I  doubt 

it.    Pretty  soft  for  me,  pretty  soft ! ' '    And  with 

the  sole  of  his  club  he  patted  the  turf  behind  his 

[316] 


ADOLPHTJS   AND    THE   BOUGH    DIAMOND 

ball,  smoothing  it  down — three  gentle  little  pats. 
"Pret-ty  soft!"  murmured  Windy,  and  sent 
the  ball  whistling  straight  on  to  the  green  for  a 
sure  4.  Then  he  turned  to  Kitts.  ' '  D  'you  give 
up  ?  "  said  he.  ' '  Might  just  as  well ;  you  haven 't 
got  a  burglar's  chance!" 

"I  claim  the  hole,"  said  Adolphus  calmly, 
fishing  out  the  book  of  rules. 

"You— what?" 

"Kule  No.  10,"  said  Kitts,  beginning  to  read. 
il  'In  playing  through  the  green,  irregularities 
of  surface  which  could  in  any  way  affect  the 
player's  stroke  shall  not  be  removed  nor 

pressed  down  by  the  player '    You  patted 

the  grass  behind  your  ball  and  improved  the 
lie  by  smoothing  it  down.  I  claim  the  hole." 

Windy  went  about  the  colour  of  a  nice  ripe 
Satsuma  plum.  His  neck  swelled  so  much  that 
his  ears  moved  outward.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  you're  goin'  to  call  a  thing  like  that  on 
me  when  you're  already  licked  for  the  hole?" 
He  spoke  slowly,  as  if  he  found  it  hard  to  be 
lieve  that  the  situation  was  real. 

"I  claim  it,"  repeated  Adolphus  monoto 
nously.  ' '  You  can  appeal  to  Mr.  Cutts,  as  chair 
man  of  the  greens  committee." 

"Hey,  Fatty!  All  I  did  was  pat  the  grass  a 
few  times  with  my  club,  and  this — this  gentle 
man  here  says  he  claims  the  hole. ' ' 

"You  violated  the  rule,"  shortly  answered 
Cupid,  who  may  be  fat  but  does  not  like  to  be 
reminded  of  it  so  publicly. 
[317] 


FOEE! 

"And  you're  goin'  to  let  him  get  away  with 
that?"  demanded  Windy.  "I'm  on  the  green 
in  two,  and  he's  neck-deep  in  the  sand  on  his 
fourth " 

"Makes  no  difference,"  said  Cupid,  turning 
away.  "You  ought  to  know  the  rules  by  now. 
Kitts  wins  the  hole." 

Well,  Windy  finally  accepted  the  situation, 
"but  he  was  in  a  savage  frame  of  mind — so  sav 
age  that  he  walked  all  the  way  to  the  second 
tee  without  opening  his  mouth.  There  he 
stepped  aside,  with  a  low  bow  to  Kitts. 

"Your  honour,  I  believe,"  said  he  with  nasty 
emphasis. 

No.  2  is  a  short  hole — a  drive  and  a  pitch. 
Windy  got  a  good  ball,  and  it  rolled  almost  to 
the  edge  of  the  green.  Kitts 's  drive  was  short 
but  straight,  and  he  pitched  his  second  to  the 
green,  some  thirty  feet  from  the  pin,  and  the 
advantage  seemed  to  be  with  Windy  until  it  was 
discovered  that  his  ball  was  lying  in  a  cuppy 
depression  of  the  turf. 

"That's  lovely,  ain't  it?"  growled  Windy. 
"A  fine  drive — and  look  at  this  for  a  lie !  I  was 
goin'  to  use  a  putter,  but  a  putter  won't  get  the 
ball  out  of  there.  Hey,  Fatty,  had  I  better  use 
a  niblick  here  ? ' ' 

"I  claim  the  hole,"  said  Kitts,  reaching  for 
the  book. 

"But   I    haven't    done    anything!"    howled 
Windy.    "How  can  you  claim  the  hole  when  I 
haven't  played  the  shot!" 
[318] 


ADOLPHUS    AND    THE    ROUGH    DIAMOND 

"You  asked  advice,"  said  Kitts,  reading. 
"  'A  player  may  not  ask  for  nor  willingly  re 
ceive  advice  from  any  one  except  his  own  caddie, 
his  partner,  or  his  partner's  caddie.'  This  is 
not  a  foursome,  so  you  have  no  partner.  Ad 
vice  is  denned  as  any  suggestion  which  could 
influence  a  player  in  determining  the  line  of 
play,  in  the  choice  of  a  club,  or  in  the  method  of 
making  a  stroke.  You  asked  whether  you 
should  use  a  niblick — and  you  lose  the  hole." 

Windy,  knocked  speechless  for  once  in  his 
life,  looked  over  at  Cupid,  and  Cupid  nodded  his 
head. 

"The  match  is  now  all  square,"  said  Kitts  as 
he  started  for  the  third  tee. 

"And  squared  by  a  couple  of  petty  larceny 
protests!"  said  Windy.  "Hey,  Mister  Book 
worm,  wait  a  minute !  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing  for  your  own  good ! ' ' 

"Oh,  play  golf!"  said  Kitts,  over  his 
shoulder. 

Windy  strode  after  him  and  took  him  by  the 
arm.  It  wasn't  a  gentle  grasp  either. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  want  to  say.  You 
play  golf,  Mr.  Kitts !  Play  it  with  your  clubs, 
and  forget  that  book  in  your  hip  pocket.  If  you 
pull  it  on  me  again,  I'll — I'll ' 

Adolphus  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  a  sickly 
effort. 

"You  can't  intimidate  me,"  said  he. 

"Maybe  not,"  said  Windy,  quite  earnestly, 
"bufl  can  lick  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life — • 
[319]. 


FORE! 

and  I  will.  Is  there  anything  in  the  book  about 
that?  If  you  read  me  out  of  this  cup,  you  bet 
ter  make  arrangements  to  have  it  sent  direct  to 
the  hospital.  It'll  make  a  nice  flower  holder — 
if  you've  got  any  friends  that  think  enough  of 
you  to  send  flowers ! ' ' 

"You  gentlemen  are  witnesses  to  these 
threats,"  said  Kitts,  appealing  to  the  gallery. 

' '  We  didn  't  hear  a  word, ' '  said  Cupid.  i  i  Not 
a  word.  Go  on  and  play  your  match  and  stop 
squabbling.  You  act  like  a  couple  of  fishwives ! ' ' 

The  contestants  walked  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  tee,  with  Windy  still  rubbing  it  in. 

"A  word  to  the  wise.  Keep  that  damn'  book 
in  your  pocket,  if  you  don't  want  to  eat  it — 
cover  and  all ! " 

"Suppose  they  do  mix  it?"  said  Cupid,  mop 
ping  his  brow.  "Sweet  little  golfing  scandal, 
eh?  Can't  you  see  the  headlines  in  the  news 
papers?  'Country  Club  finalists  in  fist  fight  on 
links!'  And  some  of  these  roughneck  humour 
ists  will  congratulate  us  on  golf  becoming  one 
of  the  vital,  red-blooded  sports !  Oh,  lovely ! ' ' 

"Bah!  "said  I.  "  There  will  be  no  fight.  No 
man  will  fight  who  smiles  like  a  coyote  when  he 
is  getting  a  call  down. ' ' 

"But  a  coyote  will  fight  if  you  put  it  up  to 
"him,  don't  make  any  mistake  about  that.  And 
Kitts  will  spring  the  book  on  Windy  again,  I 
feel  it  in  my  bones,  and  if  he  does — choose  your 
partners  for  the  one-step !  Oh,  why  did  we  ever 
let  these  rotters  into  the  club?" 
[320] 


ADOLPHUS   AND    THE    BOUGH    DIAMOND 
IV 

I  see  no  reason  for  inflicting  upon  you  a  de 
tailed  description  of  the  next  fifteen  holes  of 
golfing  frightfulness.  Golf  is  a  game  which 
requires  mental  calm,  and  the  contestants  were 
entirely  out  of  calmness  after  the  second  hole 
and  could  not  concentrate  on  their  shots. 

Windy  began  driving  all  over  the  shop,  hook 
ing  and  slicing  tremendously,  and  Kitts  man 
handled  his  irons  in  a  manner  fit  to  make  a 
hardened  professional  weep.  Neither  of  them 
could  have  holed  a  five-foot  putt  in  a  wash-tub, 
and  they  staggered  along  side  by  side,  silent 
and  nervous  and  savage,  and  if  Windy  man 
aged  to  win  a  hole  Kitts  would  be  sure  to  take 
the  next  one  and  square  the  match.  But  he 
didn't  take  any  holes  with  the  book.  When 
Windy  broke  a  rule — which  he  did  every  little 
while — Kitts  would  sneer  and  pretend  to  look 
the  other  way.  He  tried  to  convey  the  impres 
sion  that  it  was  pity  and  contempt  that  made 
him  blind  to  Windy 's  lapses,  but  he  didn't  fool 
me  for  a  minute.  It  was  fear  of  consequences. 

And  so  they  came  to  the  last  hole,  all  square, 
and  also  all  in. 

Our  eighteenth  has  a  vicious  reputation 
among  those  golfing  unfortunates  who  slice  their 
tee  shots.  The  drive  must  carry  a  steep  hill,  the 
right  slope  of  which  pitches  away  to  a  deep, 
narrow  ravine — a  ravine  scarred  and  marred  by 
thousands  of  niblick  shots,  but  otherwise  as  dis- 
[321] 


FORE! 

gusted  Nature  left  it.  We  call  it  Hell's  Half 
Acre,  though  the  first  part  of  the  name  would 
be  quite  sufficient. 

The  only  improvements  that  have  ever  been 
made  in  this  sinister  locality  have  been  made 
by  golf  clubs,  despairingly  wielded.  Hell's  Half 
Acre  is  full  of  stunted  trees  with  roots  half  out 
of  the  ground,  and  .thick  brush  and  matted 
weeds,  and  squarely  in  the  middle  of  this  deso 
lation  is  a  deep  sink,  or  pit,  known  as  the  Devil's 
Kitchen.  Hell's  Half  Acre  is  bad  enough,  be 
lieve  one  who  knows,  but  the  Devil's  Kitchen 
is  the  last  hard  word  in  hazards,  and  it  is  a 
crime  to  allow  such  a  plague  spot  within  a  mile 
of  a  golf  course. 

At  a  respectful  distance  we  watched  the  rene 
gades  drive  from  the  eighteenth  tee.  Kitts  had 
the  honour — if  there  is  any  honour  in  winning 
a  four  hole  in  eight  strokes — and  messed  about 
over  his  ball  even  longer  than  usual.  His  drive 
developed  a  lovely  curve  to  the  right,  and  went 
skipping  and  bounding  down  the  hill  toward  the 
ravine. 

"And  that'll  be  in  the  Kitchen  unless  some 
thing  stops  it!"  said  Cupid  with  a  sigh  of  re 
lief.  "I  was  afraid  the  blighters  might  halve 
this  one  and  need  extra  holes ! ' ' 

Now  with  Adolphus  in  the  Devil's  Kitchen 
all  Windy  needed  was  a  straight  ball  over  the 
brow  of  the  hill — in  fact,  a  ball  anywhere  on  the 
course  would  be  almost  certain  to  win  the  hole 
and  the  match — but  when  he  walked  out  on  the 
[322] 


ADOLPHUS   AND    THE   ROUGH   DIAMOND 

tee  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  he  had  lost  con 
fidence  in  his  wooden  club.  Any  golfer  knows 
what  it  means  to  lose  confidence  in  his  wood, 
and  Windy  had  reason  to  doubt  his  driver.  His 
tee  shots  had  been  fearfully  off  direction,  and 
here  was  one  that  had  to  go  straight. 

He  teed  his  ball,  swung  his  club  a  couple  of 
times,  and  shook  his  head.  Then  he  yelled  at  his 
caddie. 

1 '  Oh,  boy !    Bring  me  my  cleek ! ' ' 

Now,  a  cleek  is  a  wonderful  club  if  a  man 
knows  how  to  use  one,  but  it  produces  a  low  tee 
shot,  as  a  general  thing.  It  produced  one  for 
Windy — a  screamer,  flying  with  the  speed  of  a 
rifle  bullet.  I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  barely 
going  to  clear  the  top  of  the  hill,  but  I  mis 
judged  it.  Three  feet  higher  and  the  ball  would 
have  been  over,  but  it  struck  the  ground  and 
kicked  abruptly  to  the  right,  disappearing  in  the 
direction  of  the  Devil's  Kitchen.  We  heard  a 
crashing  noise.  It  was  Windy  splintering  his 
cleek  shaft  over  the  tee  box. 

1 '  Both  down ! ' '  ejaculated  Cupid.  ' '  Suffering 
St.  Andrew,  what  a  finish ! ' ' 

We  arrived  on  the  rim  of  the  Kitchen  and 
peered  into  that  wild  amphitheatre.  Kitts  had 
already  found  his  ball,  and  was  staring  at  it 
with  an  expression  of  dumb  anguish  on  his  face. 
It  was  lying  underneath  a  tangle  of  sturdy  oak 
roots,  as  safely  protected  as  if  an  octopus  was 
trying  to  hatch  something  out  of  it. 

Windy  was  combing  the  weeds  which  grew  on 
[323] 


FOKE! 

the  abrupt  sides  of  the  pit,  too  full  of  his  own 
trouble  to  pay  any  attention  to  his  opponent. 

"If  it's  a  lost  ball "  said  Cupid. 

But  it  wasn't.  Windy  found  it,  halfway  up 
the  left  slope,  hidden  in  the  weeds,  and  not  a 
particularly  bad  lie  except  for  the  fact  that  noth 
ing  human  could  have  taken  a  stance  on  that 
declivity.  Having  found  his  ball,  Windy  took  a 
look  at  Kitts  's  lie  and  then,  for  the  first  and  only 
time  in  his  golfing  career,  Wilkins  recognised 
the  rules  of  the  game.  * '  You  're  away,  sir, ' '  said 
he  to  Kitts.  "Play!" 

Adolphus  took  his  niblick  and  attacked  the 
octopus.  His  first  three  strokes  did  not  even  jar 
the  ball,  but  they  damaged  the  oak  roots  be 
yond  repair.  On  his  eighth  attempt  the  ball 
popped  out  of  its  nest,  and  the  next  shot  was  a 
very  pretty  one,  sailing  up  and  out  to  the  fair 
green,  but  there  was  no  applause  from  the  gal 
lery.  ' 

"Countin'  the  drive,"  said  Windy,  "that 
makes  ten,  eh?" 

A  man  may  play  nine  strokes  in  a  hazard,  but 
he  hates  to  admit  it.  Adolphus  grunted  and 
withdrew  to  the  other  side  of  the  pit,  from  which 
point  he  watched  Windy  morosely.  With  vic 
tory  in  sight  the  latter  became  cheerful  again; 
conversation  bubbled  out  of  him. 

' '  Boy,  slip  me  the  niblick  and  get  up  yonder  on 

the  edge  of  the  ravine  where  you  can  watch  this 

ball.    I'm  goin'  to  knock  it  a  mile  out  of  here. 

Ten  shots  he's  had.    If  it  was  me,  I'd  give  up. 

[324] 


ADOLPHUS   AND    THE    ROUGH   DIAMOND 

How  am  I  to  get  a  footin'  on  this  infernal  side 
hill!  Spikes  won't  hold  in  that  stuff.  Wish  I 
was  a  goat.  Aha !  The  very  thing ! ' ' 

Suddenly  he  delivered  a  powerful  blow  at  the 
slope  some  distance  below  his  ball  and  three  or 
four  feet  to  the  left  of  it.  Cupid  gasped  and 
opened  his  mouth  to  say  something,  but  I  nudged 
him  and  he  subsided,  clucking  like  a  nervous 
hen. 

"What's  the  idea?"  demanded  Kitts. 

"To  make  little  boys  ask  questions,"  was  the 
calm  reply.  "I  climbed  the  Alps  once.  Had 
to  dig  holes  for  my  feet.  Guess  I  haven't  for 
gotten  how,  but  diggin '  with  a  blasted  niblick  is 
hard  work." 

"Oh!  "said  Kitts. 

Windy  continued  to  hack  at  the  wall,  the  gal 
lery  looking  on  in  tense  silence.  Nobody  would 
have  offered  a  suggestion ;  we  all  felt  that  it  was 
their  own  affair,  and  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  as 
the  saying  is.  When  Windy  had  hacked  out  a 
place  for  his  right  foot  he  cut  another  one  for  his 
left.  The  weeds  were  tough  and  the  soil  was 
hard,  and  he  grunted  as  he  worked. 

' '  Yep — that  Alps  trip — taught  me  something. 
Comes  in — handy  now.  Pretty  nifty — job, 
hey?" 

I  suppose  a  mountain  climber  would  have 
called  it  a  nifty  job.  Cupid  began  to  mutter. 

"Be  quiet!"  said  I.  "Let's  see  if  Kitts  has 
nerve  enough  to  call  it  on  him!" 

With  the  shaft  of  his  niblick  in  his  teeth, 
[325] 


FOKE! 

Windy  swarmed  up  the  side  of  the  wall,  found 
the  footholds  and  planted  himself  solidly. 
Grasping  a  bush  above  his  head  with  his  left 
hand,  he  measured  the  distance  with  his  eye, 
steadied  himself  and  swung  the  niblick  with  his 
powerful  right  arm.  It  was  a  wonderful  shot, 
even  if  Windy  Wilkins  did  make  it;  the  ball 
went  soaring  skyward,  far  beyond  all  trouble. 

"Some — out!"  he  panted,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  at  Kitts.  "I  guess  that'll  clinch  the 
match ! ' ' 

For  just  a  second  Adolphus  hesitated ;  then  he 
must  have  thought  of  the  cup.  *  *  I  rather  think  it 
will, ' '  said  he.  *  *  You  're  nicely  out,  Wilkins — in 
forty-seven  strokes." 

' '  Forty-seven  devils ! ' '  shouted  Windy.  ' '  I  'm 
out  in  two!" 

"In  a  hazard,"  quoted  Kitts,  "the  club  shall 
not  touch  the  ground,  nor  shall  anything  be 
touched  or  moved  before  the  player  strikes  at 
the  ball. ' '  At  this  point  Adolphus  made  a  seri 
ous  mistake;  he  reached  for  the  book.  "Under 
the  rule,"  he  continued,  "I  could  claim  the  hole 
on  you,  but  I  won't  do  that.  I'll  only  count  the 
strokes  you  took  in  chopping  a  stance  for  your 
self " 

That  was  where  Windy  dropped  the  niblick 
and  jumped  at  him,  and  Cupid  was  correct 
about  the  coyote.  Put  him  in  a  hole  where  he 
can't  get  out,  attack  him  hard  enough,  and  he 
will  fight. 

Adolphus  dropped  the  book  and  nailed  Windy 
[326] 


ADOLPHUS   AND    THE   EOUGH   DIAMOND 

on  the  chin  with  a  right  uppercut  that  jarred 
the  whole  "Wilkins  family. 

"Keep  out  of  it,  everybody!"  yelled  Cupid 
with  a  sudden  flash  of  inspiration.  "It's  an 
elimination  contest!  More  power  to  both  of 
'em — and  may  they  both  lose !" 

Inside  of  two  seconds  the  whole  floor  of  the 
Devil's  Kitchen  was  littered  up  with  fists  and 
elbows  and  boots  and  knees.  They  fought  into 
clinches  and  battered  their  way  out  of  them; 
they  tripped  over  roots  and  scrambled  to  their 
feet  again;  they  tossed  all  rules  to  the  winds 
except  the  rule  of  self-preservation.  The  air 
was  full  of  heartfelt  grunts  and  sounds  as  of 
some  one  beating  a  rag  carpet,  and  the  language 
which  floated  to  us  was — well,  elemental,  to  say 
the  least.  And  through  it  all  the  gallery  looked 
down  in  decent  silence;  there  was  no  favourite 
for  whom  any  one  cared  to  cheer. 

When  Windy  came  toiling  up  out  of  the  pit 
alone,  but  one  remark  was  addressed  to  him. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  play  it  out?"  asked 
Cupid. 

"Huh?"  said  Windy,  pausing.  His  coat  was 
torn  off  his  back,  his  soiled  white  trousers  were 
out  at  the  knees,  his  nose  was  bleeding  freely, 
and  his  mouth  was  lopsided. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  finish  the  match? 
You've  only  played  46.  Kitts  made  a  mistake 
in  the  count." 

"Finish— hell!"  snarled  Windy.  "You 
roosted  up  here  like  a  lot  of  buzzards  and  let  me 
[327] 


FOEE! 

chop  myself  out  of  the  contest !  I  feel  like  fin- 
ishin'  the  lot  of  you,  and  I'm  through  with  any 
club  that'll  let  a  swine  like  Kitts  be  a  member ! ' ' 

Oddly  enough,  this  last  statement  was  sub 
stantially  the  same  as  the  one  Adolphus  made 
when  he  recovered  consciousness. 

The  wily  Cupid,  concealing  from  each  the  in 
tentions  of  the  other,  and  becoming  a  bearer  of 
pens,  ink,  and  paper,  managed  to  secure  both 
their  resignations  before  they  left  the  club 
house  that  evening,  and  peace  now  reigns  at  the 
Country  Club. 

We  have  been  given  to  understand  that  in  the 
future  the  committee  on  membership  will  re 
quire  gilt-edged  certificates  of  character  and 
that  no  rough  diamonds  need  apply. 

Nobody  won  the  handicap  cup,  and  nobody 
knows  what  to  do  with  it,  though  there  is  some 
talk  of  having  it  engraved  as  follows : 

"Elimination  Trophy — won  by  W.  W.  Wilk- 
ins,  knockout,  one  round. " 


[328] 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 
THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT^ 
THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 
WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 
THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 
THE  HERITAGE  OF  THK  DESERT 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 
THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 
THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 
DESERT  GOLD 
BETTY  ZANE 

******* 
LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  "  Buffalo  Bill"  by  his  sister  Heleh  Cody 
Wetmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 
THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE   STRATTON-PORTER 

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MICHAEL  O'HALLORAN.      Illustrated  by  Frances  Rogers. 

Michael  is  a  quick-witted  little  Irish  newsboy ,  living  in  Northern 
Indiana.     He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.     He  also  as 
sumes  the  responsibility  of  leading  the  entire  rural  community  up 
ward  and  onward, 
LADDIE.      Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the  scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The 
story  is  told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family, 
but  it  is  concerned  not  so  much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family.  Chief  among  them  is  that 
of  Laddie  and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has  come  to  live  in 
the  neighborhood  and  about  whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"  The  Harvester, "  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  if  the 
book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  this  man  it  would 
be  notable.     But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his '' Medicine  Woods," 
there  begins  a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES.      Illustrated. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life  ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp  ;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality  ;  and  hia 
love-story  with  "  The  Angel  "  are  full  of  real  sentiment, 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST.  ^Illustrated. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods ;  a  buoyant,  loveable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things  ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by 
the  sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW.  Illustrations  in  colors. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
The   story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.     The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  alL 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL.      Profusely  illustrated. 

A  love  ideal  of  the  Cardinal  bird  and  his  mate,  told  with  delicacy 
and  humor. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


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DANGEROUS  DAYS. 

A  brilliant  story  of  married  life.  A  romance  of  fine  purpose  and 
stirring  appeal. 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE. 

Illustrations  by  The  Kinneys. 

The  story  of  a  great  love  which  cannot  be  pictured — an  interlude  j 
—amazing,  romantic. 

LOVE  STORIES. 

This  book  is  exactly  what  its  title  indicates,  a  collection  of  love 
affairs— sparkling  with  humor,  tenderness  and  sweetness. 

"K."    Illustrated. 

K.  LeMoyne,  famous  surgeon,  goes  to  live  in  a  little  town  where 
beautiful  Sidney  Page  lives.  She  is  in  training  to  become  a  nurse. 
The  joys  and  troubles  of  their  young  love  are  told  with  keen  and 
sympathetic  appreciation. 

THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN. 

Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  absorbing  detective  story  woven  around  the  mysterious  death 
of  the  "  Man  in  Lower  Ten."  ' 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES. 

Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  that 
his  aunt  is  soon  to  visit  him.  The  aunt,  who  contributes  to  the 
family  income,  knows  nothing  of  the  domestic  upheaval.  How  the 
young  man  met  the  situation  is  entertainingly  told. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE.  Illustrated  by  Lester  Ralph. 

The  occupants  of  "Sunnyside"  find  the  dead  body  of  Arnold 
Armstrong  on  the  circular  staircase.  Following  the  murder  a  bank 
failure  is  announced.  Around  these  two  events  is  woven  a  plot  of 
absorbing  interest, 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS.  (Photoplay  Edition.) 

Harmony  Wells,  studying  in  Vienna  to  be  a  great  violinist,  sud. 

denry  realizes  that   her  money  is  almost  gone.     She  meets  a  young 

ambitious  doctor  who  offers  her  chivalry  and  sympathy,  and  together 

with  world- worn  Dr.  Anna  and  Jimmie,  the  waif,  they  share  tfaeir 

r  love  and  slender  means. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  Ycaac 


BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

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SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre 
sistible  and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu 
morous,  tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENRQD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
Borne  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re 
volts  against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  life  hi  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  hi  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

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GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


KATH LEEN   NORRIS9  STORIES 

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SISTERS.   Frontispiece  by  Frank  Stre'eL 

The  California  Redwoods  furnish  the  background  for  this 
beautiful  story  of  sisterly  devotion  and  sacrifice. 

EOOR,  DEAR.  MARGARET  KIRBY. 
Frontispiece  by  George  Gibbs. 

A  collection  of  delightful  stories,  including  "Bridging  the 
Years "  and  "The  Tide-Marsh,"  This  story  fe  now  shown  in 
moving  pictures. 

pSSELYN'S  WIFE.  Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

The  story  of  a  beautiful  woman  who  fought  a  bitter  fight  for 
happiness  and  love. 

MARTIE,  THE  UNCONQUERED. 
Illustrated  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 
The  triumph  of  a  dauntless  spirit  over  adverse  conditions. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 
Frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

An  interesting  story  of  divorce  and  the  problems  that  come 
with  a  second  marriage. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 
Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

A  sympathetic  portrayal  of  the  quest  of  a  normal  girl,  obscure 
and  lonely,  for  the  happiness  of  life. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD.    Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootes, 

Can  a  girl,  born  in  rather  sordid  conditions,  lift  herself  through 
sheer  determination  to  the  better  things  for  which  her  soul 
•hungered  ? 

MOTHER:'  Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

i?»  A  story  of  the  big  mother  heart  that  beats  in  the  background 
of  every  girl's  life,  and  some  dreams  which  came  true. 

Ask  f°r  Complete  free   list  of  G.    &  D.    Popular  Copyrighted  FicRat, 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


SEWELL    FORD'S  STORIES 

May  be  had  wherever  boohs  are  sold.    Ash  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap't  list 

SHORTY  McCABE.      Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

A  very  hu  norous  story,    The  hero,  an  independent  and  vigorout 
thinker,  sees  life,  and  tells  about  it  in  a  very  unconventional  way. 
SIDE-STEPPING  WITH  SHORTY. 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Twenty  skits,    presenting  people  with  their   foibles.     Sympathy 
tdth  human  nature  and  an  abounding  sense  of  humor  are  the  requi 
sites  for  "side-stepping  with  Shorty." 
SHORTY  McCABE  ON  THE  JOB. 

Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Shorty  McCabe  reappears  with  his  figures  of  speech  revamped 
right  up  to   the   minute.      He  aids  in    the  right  distribution  of  a 
"conscience   fund,"    and   gives  joy  to   all    concerned. 
SHORTY  McCABE'S  ODD  NUMBERS. 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

These  further  chronicles  of  Shorty  McCabe  tell  of  his  studio  for 
physical  culture,  and  of  his  experiences  both  on  the  East  side  and  at 
swell  yachting  parties. 
TORCHY.      Illus,  by  Geo.  Biehm  and  Jas.  Montgomery  Flagg. 

A   red-headed  office  boy,  overflowing   with  wit  and  wisdom  pe 
culiar  to  the  youths  reared  on  the  sidewalks  of  New  York,  tells  the 
story  of  his  experiences. 
TRYING  OUT  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy    is  just  as  deliriously  funny  in  these  stories  as  he  waa  in 
the  previous  book. 
ON  WITH  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy  falls  desperately  in  love  with  "the  only  girl  that  ever 
was,"  but  that  young  society  woman's  aunt  tries  to  keep  the  young 
people  apart,  which  brings  about  many  hilariously  funny  situations, 
TORCHY,  PRIVATE  SEC.  Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy  rises  from  the  position  of  office  boy  to  that  of  secretary 
for  the  Corrugated  Iron  Company.    The  story  is  full  of  humor  and 
Infectious  American  slang. 
WILT  THOU  TORCHY.      Illua.  by  F.  Snapp  and  A.  W.  Brown. 

Torchy  goes  on  a  treasure  search  expedition  to  the  Florida  West 
Coast,  in  company  with  a  group  of  friends  of  the  Corrugated  Trust 
and  with  his  friend's  aunt,  on  which  trip  Torchy  wins  the  aunt's 
permission  to  place  an  engagement  ring  on  Vee's  finger. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 

-—--• 


ELEANOR  H.  PORTER'S  NOVELS 

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JUST  DAVID 

The  tale  of  a  loveable  boy  and  the  place  he  comes  to 
fill  in  the  hearts  of  the  gruff  farmer  folk  to  whose  care  he 
is  left. 

THE  ROAD  TO  UNDERSTANDING 

A  compelling  romance  of  love  and  marriage. 
OH,  MONEY  !   MONEY  ! 

Stanley  Fulton,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  to  test  the  disposi 
tions  of  his  relatives,  sends  them  each  a  check  for  $100,- 
000,  and  then  as  plain  John  Smith  comes  among  them  to 
watch  the  result  of  his  experiment. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH 

A  wholesome  story  of  a  club  of  six  girls  and  their  sum 
mer  on  Six  Star  Ranch. 

DAWN 

The  story  of  a  blind  boy  whose  courage  leads  him 
through  the  gulf  of  despair  into  a  final  victory  gained  by 
dedicating  his  life  to  the  service  of  blind  soldiers. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

Short  stories  of  our  own  kind  and  of  our  own  people. 
Contains1  some  of  the  best  writing  Mrs.  Porter  has  done. 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS 

In  these  stories  we  find  the  concentrated  charm  and 
tenderness  of  all  her  other  books. 

THE  TIE  THAT  BINDS 

Intensely  human  stories  told  with  Mrs.  Porter's  won 
derful  talent  for  warm  and  vivid  character  drawing. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 

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THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  scene  of  this  splendid  story  is  laid  in  India  and 
tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  through 
all  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 

GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul. 

THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win  even  when  there  was  only 
"  a  hundredth  chance." 

THE  SWINDLER 

The  story  of  a  "bad  man's"  soul  revealed  by  a 
woman's  faith. 

THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  false. 

THE   SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid  love  story  of  India.  The  volume  also 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


EP--T 


A  "••'••  Mill  Hill  Hid  IIIU  j 

000  030  546 


